


Scenario B

by mellostopheles



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: F/M, Gen, I'm not really a massive tagger because I don't like spoilers, Multi, Murder Mystery, nothing worse than what appears in canon!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 70
Words: 269,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellostopheles/pseuds/mellostopheles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FBI Agent Francis York Morgan (though he prefers York) has come to Greenvale to help solve a murder. One of the locals is dead, and if the strange visions he's been having are to be believed, there's something darker in play. But this is not the case you know. This is an original murder mystery using the same characters, the same town, and the same conceit, with new crimes. A new Raincoat Killer is waiting to be unmasked. Comments will contain spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcoming

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I am a massive fan of Deadly Premonition and have wanted to write a lengthy fanfic for it for a while now, but was stuck because considering the timeline, writing a story about York means forgetting about Greenvale, and writing about Greenvale means forgetting about York. Luckily, I'm also a lifelong fan of crime fiction, so an original murder mystery set in the same time and place with the same characters seemed like the perfect compromise.  
> To be clear, while the characters are largely the same (expanded upon logically in some cases), the plot will naturally divert from the game the moment the first victim dies, (but especially after chapter seven). Different characters will have different fates. Half the fun, I hope, will be trying to work out who the killer is and who's going to die next. Just like playing the game through for the first time.  
> Ideally, this story will flow naturally and introduce characters in a way that playing Deadly Premonition won't be totally necessary (although everyone should because it's fantastic). So don't worry about missing anything if you haven't completely played the game yourself.
> 
> And that's it! Please enjoy. I've finished writing, so updates will remain regular until the end.

Chapter One. [ Welcoming ]

Francis York Morgan stared through the heavy rain at the wreck of his once-beautiful car. Considering the scene for a moment, all the damage that was waiting to be cleared up, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, shielding the small flame from the rain with his free hand. This was a bad start to his new case.

He’d come to Greenvale to study the murder of one of their young residents. His personal interest in this case was well known to the FBI, and he would not have been able to resist the siren song of this strange new murderer had he tried. Unfortunately, just like the traditional victim of a siren, he was now looking down at his ruined vehicle, lucky to be alive. He’d avoided any serious damage, bracing the impact with nothing but a few small cuts and bruises which would easily clear up in the next few days. But then York, as he liked to be called, had always been what you might call a lucky man.

“This is an interesting welcome to the countryside, wouldn’t you say, Zach?” York asked out loud. There was no-one with him, but he smiled anyway at a response that only he could hear. The car was unusable. He would have to walk the rest of the way into town, not something he would have chosen, considering his unfamiliarity with the area. Not to mention the darkness of the night, made all the more claustrophobic thanks to the canopy of leaves overhead blocking even the moonlight from shining down on him. There was something menacing about trees like that, York noted. Living, thinking things. The gentle shivering of their branches like malicious sniggering stretching out in all directions. But then he had to admit he didn’t spend a lot of time in the countryside, and it was easy to let things get to you. The trees, he knew, were just trees.

York attempted to pry open the crumpled trunk of his car and was unable to move it more than an inch, and only then after a lot of wasted energy. He sighed with the realisation that his things would have to stay at the crash site for now. At least no-one would be able to steal them. Instead, he went and opened the passenger side door, the one through which he had earlier escaped, and reached into the glove box for a flashlight he kept on hand for emergencies. Clicking it on brought a welcome glow to his surroundings, sterilising the once-frightening forest, righting the world again. He checked his hip holster to make sure his gun was still there and was pleased to find it was. Hopefully he wouldn’t need it. Having made all the preparations he could, York began down the pathway that cut through the trees ahead of him.

After walking for only about five minutes, he came to a small wooden hut, outer walls tarnished by years of rain, and considered for a moment before going inside. It was nice to have a moment to think out of the storm, and the sound of the rain hitting against the roof was almost peaceful. There were shelves with ancient paint cans and tools, relics from a time when this part of the forest was attractive to tourists no doubt. York took some time to brush himself off, examine a small tear in the elbow of his suit jacket, and consider the situation. He had been expected to meet with the sheriff at the bridge into Greenvale. Although he wasn’t wearing a watch, he had a good idea that he was meant to be there right now, and after this point he’d be considered late. He wondered when ‘late’ would turn into ‘missing’, and if anyone would come looking for him when it did. With luck, he would have found his way back to the road by then. After enjoying his time out of the rain, he took a second to prepare himself and stepped back outside, once more feeling sheet after icy sheet of rain bathe him and his already soaked suit.

“Why do they never send us anywhere nice, Zach?” York said with a click of his tongue. The response, that nice places just weren’t often enough the scene of grisly crimes, was implied. Another short walk down the path, and York was glad to find a sign. It was old and water-damaged, the parts that remained faded and peeling, but he was able to figure out from the partial map that he wasn’t far away from the main road into town, and that he should be able to get back to it with only a little more effort. He set off through the trees again, glad to see there was only really one trail, and that it seemed to be leading him in the right direction. He continued until the path widened out, stretching into a clearing, then stopped.

Something felt wrong.

York put a hand reflexively on his gun, ready to reach for it if he needed to. He shone the flashlight through the empty air, detecting nothing. He was alone with the trees and the birds and the night sky. At first.

He felt a weak shiver start in his legs and creep up through his body, hungry electricity, growing stronger until it bounced around inside his skull, almost audible. In the inky black of night there was something darker. Though he shone the flashlight straight ahead, it would not penetrate the darkness mounting along the path, seemingly seeping out towards him, rising like dirty water. He frowned and stood perfectly still. This was not the first time. And there never would be a last time, he had come to realise. He fingers twitched impatiently over his gun.

The unshakeable darkness broke in places like stormy waves, showing him shapes and images until, dead ahead, a figure emerged from the fog. It was almost human with an inhuman pallor. The eyes were missing. York recalled, as he always did, an old story that greys, the aliens people most often claimed to see, were the brain reducing human faces to the absolute basics. Round shapes with black holes for eyes. The way babies saw the world. Whenever he saw one of these creatures, something which happened with worryingly increasing frequency, he remembered that fact. They’re humans before you know what humans are. They’re not meant to be frightening. They’re leftovers, from before your brain could think properly, seeping out of the primordial ooze of the self. Childhood memories. And nothing from childhood should be feared as an adult.

“If only,” York said quietly. He removed his gun from its holster and pointed it dead ahead, waiting for the figment to get close enough to make a hit.

The damaged face twitched and quivered as if it was stuck permanently in a state of almost-dying, a piece of roadkill that didn’t die instantly, still shaking on the border between life and death. It shook against the dark background before suddenly jumping forward. York gasped involuntarily. It hadn’t moved its legs. It had acted like a character in a film with five seconds of frames cut out. Moving illogically. He knew that figments like this did not have to follow the same rules as people did, but it was still an unsettling sight. The figure twisted itself around, slipping in and out of focus, refusing to comply with rationality, edging forward on its backwards-facing feet and moaning, muttering inaudible words. As another breeze went through the air, York could hear the shuffling of the leaves, like a quiet chorus of audience members reacting as the scene played out before them. Watching him. The shape of the shadow bent against the background of laughing trees, bolstered by their encouragement, white face and arms stretching out like sentient branches, reaching for him. York gave it just enough time to shudder into range, then pulled the trigger on his pistol, shattering it. The figment collapsed into blackness on the ground, a wail bubbling from its melted lips as it died.

“They’re here, Zach,” York said to himself. He listened carefully for any more and relaxed only when he was sure that there’d only been one figment for the time being. He lowered the gun and allowed himself a second to breathe.

He didn’t know what they were. He didn’t know why hurting them worked. If they were real, physical things, then why did no-one else seem to see them? If they were figments of his imagination, then why did they die when he attacked them? Did they just dissipate because he expected them to? It was hard to tell how much danger they posed, when he couldn’t even decide on what level they existed. Still, it was not something he wanted to test to find out.

The rest of his walk was less eventful, thankfully. He was able to continue through the woods with only the occasional feeling that someone else was there, watching. Whenever he felt it he sped up, switching into a half-run, trying to get away from the shadows at his heels.

♦ ♦ ♦

The rain was ending, and Emily Wyatt finally felt safe to get out of her car. She’d been waiting for the FBI agent for a long time. Longer than she realised, she thought, catching sight of the clock on the car radio. He was very late for someone who should be trying to make a good impression on local law enforcement. Her boss, the sheriff, had expressed plenty of doubt about the need for an FBI bigwig muddying the pool of their small town crime. While it was true that the murder was nothing short of horrific, it was still just a case of a local kid meeting an unfortunate end. It was more than likely that the killer was someone from Greenvale, an idea that had made Emily uncomfortable when the sheriff casually brought it up. She did not like to think that one of the people she saw around town was a killer. Especially not one capable of… that. The image of the crime scene was burned into the back of her eyes. It had been ever since she’d seen it, and it was going to take a lot of long nights of mindless television and the knowledge that the killer was behind bars to erase it from her mind.

Just then, Emily caught sight of something down the road. She held a hand up to her brow to try and see better in the faint dawn light. It was a person, moving, walking shakily in her direction. Her eyes widened. If this was the FBI agent, he was not arriving as expected.

As York got closer, he was able to properly make out the figure waiting in the middle of the road. It was a woman, probably in her mid-twenties. She had light blonde hair and, as he reached her he could see, blue eyes. Not to mention a bemused expression on her face.

“Hey… you kept me waiting,” Emily said to who she now knew must be the FBI agent. He was dressed like one, certainly. Even if his suit looked more than a little worse for wear.

“Yes, I know,” York said matter-of-factly. “There was an accident with my car. I ran off the road in the rain and crashed.”

“Oh my God!” Emily said, putting a hand over her mouth in shock. “And you’re all right? You were able to just… walk away from that?” She looked him over again. The man in front of her certainly looked as if he’d slept in a bush, but he didn’t appear to be badly injured. He was lucky. Most people who drove their cars off the road in this kind of weather wouldn’t be in such good shape. In fact, tourists taking risks on the outer roads was one of the few things keeping the Greenvale hospital in business. Not that that made it any more welcome, Emily thought.

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” York assured her, ready to move on. “Now,” he reached into his jacket and flipped out a badge, flashing it in front of her face before putting it back. “I’m Agent Francis York Morgan. But please, call me York. Everybody does.”

“York,” Emily repeated. “Okay. If you say so.” She was still getting over the fact that he had walked straight out of a car crash. If he turned out to be a ghost, it would almost seem more logical.

“And you are?” York asked.

“Oh. I’m Deputy Sheriff Emily Wyatt,” she informed him. “The sheriff and I were both waiting here for you, but with you being so late, I’m afraid he went home. He told me to call if you showed up. Should I…?” Her hand hovered over the receiver strapped to her shoulder. She was hesitant to call the sheriff up at this hour after seeing how frustrated he’d been earlier when the agent had failed to show up. He was probably asleep by now. Emily was looking forward to getting to bed herself, having been out in her car on the bridge for hours.

“No, that’s all right,” York said. “I’m sure we’ll have time to meet in the morning. In the meantime, I heard there was a good hotel nearby. That’s where I was planning on going after this. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“I’ll drive you,” Emily said quickly, unwilling to let him walk such a distance. Even if he claimed not to be hurt, she couldn’t imagine walking away from a car accident without at least some mild discomfort. She opened up the door of her car and climbed into the driver’s seat. After a moment of hesitation, York climbed into the seat beside her and Emily had to repress the urge to say something when he immediately took out a cigarette and lit it inside her car. He rolled down the window and blew the smoke out.

“I feel uncomfortable riding as a passenger in a car,” York explained to her, unprompted.

“I see that,” Emily said, staring at the lit cigarette gently dripping ash onto her upholstery. She did not smoke herself, and didn’t like the mess it left. Although the stack of fast food wrappers crushed into the floor of her backseat meant she probably couldn’t argue too much about the mess. She settled for just cringing as York took another drag beside her, then started up the engine.

The two of them didn’t talk much on the drive over to the hotel. They were both tired, for slightly different reasons, having been up all night. The little conversation they shared was practical, with Emily promising that someone would get York’s things for him from the car wreck, that a police car would be delivered for him to use tomorrow morning, and asking him to be on time to meet the sheriff tomorrow. Lest he leave an even worse impression than he already had. York did not outright comment that the local sheriff sounded like a closed-minded man who was angry that his toes were being stepped on by the big boots of the FBI. But he certainly shared the mental note with Zach.

Eventually they pulled up outside the entrance of the hotel, and Emily stopped the car. As York climbed out, she leant across to leave him with a parting message.

“It’s going to be interesting to see some of that FBI training in person,” she said, smiling a little. “I’ve never worked on a case this big, so this is new for me.”

“Then you should make sure you pay close attention to everything,” York said, and waved goodbye. Alone, Emily rolled her eyes and scoffed at his remark. He didn’t seem to realise what kind of impression he left on people. That, or he just didn’t care. She was not looking forward to seeing how he’d get on with the sheriff tomorrow.

She turned the key and heard the car come back to life. That could wait. Right now, what she needed was some hot food and a good few hours of sleep. FBI agents and their city troubles would wait until the morning.


	2. The First Victim

Chapter Two. [ The First Victim ]

York woke the next morning with regret. The huge bed he’d been provided in the hotel was extremely comfortable, and despite himself he was hoping on turning this trip into something of a holiday. He sat up to see his suitcase and weapons case lying past the end of the bed on a cabinet. Emily must have kept her promise to have them brought by. He wondered who the unlucky assistant that had been dragged out of bed last night to go and crowbar them out of his crushed car had been. He’d have to thank them.

He forced himself to climb out of bed, noting that this would be a much pleasanter case on a comfort level at least. Most of his cases took him to cities, and there it was usually a bad motel room or, worse, a safe house provided by the local law enforcement that hadn’t been properly cleaned since the 80s. This was real hospitality, and he was going to enjoy it.

His suitcase hadn’t been badly damaged in the crash, although he noticed a scuff on the shiny surface that he would have to buff out later. He popped the lid open and took stock. His suits seemed fine, if slightly crumpled. He would have liked to have got them out on hangers last night, but it was not important given the situation. When you find yourself having to peel open your car door and climb out like you’re in a swimming pool, whether or not your suits are crinkling in the trunk isn’t really big on your list of priorities. He wondered if this hotel had laundry facilities.

When he was dressed in one his classic dark suits with a striped red tie, York stepped out of his hotel room only to be immediately confronted by an old woman. It was the same woman who had handed him his room key last night, the owner.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan!” she said brightly, smiling up at him from her hunched over position. York could only imagine the pain she must be in if her back caused her to bend almost ninety degrees forward at all times. He smiled back.

“Good morning!” York said. “You must be tired. You were awake when I arrived, and that was very early in the morning.”

“Oh, well,” the old woman sighed, “with my husband gone, I do find I wake early in the mornings… I just like to get my day started. There’s a lot to do in a hotel of this size, but then I enjoy the work. It’s become something of a hobby for me.”

“I see,” York said, wondering if he was going to hear her life story before he’d even had his coffee. Thankfully, she cut herself off with her next point.

“Now, Mr. Morgan,” she said, “You must join me for breakfast! It would be such a shame for us to miss each other, seeing as we’re the only two here.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” York agreed. “There don’t seem to be any other guests staying here in the hotel. Is that right?” The old woman stared at him blankly for a moment then laughed.

“I told you, my husband passed away. Don’t start with me, you’re far too young!” As she laughed York wondered what on earth she had thought he’d said, but didn’t want to ask. He simply let the point pass. Eventually, she seemed to remember that they were having a conversation. “Well then. Shall we?” she asked, gesturing towards a turn in the hallway that York assumed led to the dining room.

“Of course, Miss…?” He realised he’d never got her name. When he’d arrived at the hotel, he’d been far too eager to get to bed to worry about social introductions.

“Polly,” she informed him cheerfully. “Polly Oxford. Now, let’s get some food inside you.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Later, York found himself sitting at one end of a ridiculously oversized dining table in an almost empty dining room. Polly sat at the other end, although from this distance she was more dolly than Polly. The eggs she’d cooked were good, even if she had overdone it with the pepper. York sat back in his chair, chewing, while Polly continued making conversation he had to struggle to hear.

“Of course it’s the family I feel sorry for,” she said. “It always is with this kind of tragedy. And so gruesome apparently! Why, I’m not one for rumours, but I did hear from Mr. Green, that’s Jim Green, he found the body as you may know, that it was a terrible scene. He said he was only glad his poor grandsons weren’t there. He does try and protect them so. Of course, it’s difficult with something like this. No doubt they’ll be hearing about what happened from all their friends. It’s probably just as well that it’s summer with no school. Hopefully by the time September comes around, all the nasty gossip will have calmed down.” She shook her head sadly and York sat back nodding when appropriate. He almost felt as if just sitting in this chair and listening to Polly talk would be enough to solve the case on its own. She seemed to know everything about the town and its people.

“I’m sure their parents will be able to keep them away from the worst of it,” York shouted. Polly looked back at him blankly.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Oh you don’t think the killer would hurt those two, do you? They’re only six years old, bless them. Twins. Very sweet, very dear children. Still, I suppose if that person could do what they did to that other poor child, I…” Polly stopped herself before she could say anything else on the matter. “Now, Mr. Morgan. You don’t much know your way around town, I expect? Let me give you some advice. If you need to buy anything, there’s a very useful store you can visit called the Milk Barn. It’s run by Lilly and Keith Ingram, who are just such a sweet couple. As I said, they have the nicest twin boys you’d ever meet.”

“They sound like good people,” York shouted. Polly nodded her head. Her hearing seemed to come and go, York thought. Unless she was just playing it up for fun. At that age, it seemed like the sort of thing one might do.

“They are,” she agreed. “And if you find yourself with some time, we have one of the best diners you’ll ever visit, right here in town. Why, the food there puts my cooking to shame, I’m sure!” She laughed and York joined in, although he wasn’t sure if he should be agreeing with a forkful of her food on its way to his mouth right now. “That’s the A&G Diner. Nick Cormack owns it and cooks there. His wife Olivia helps him.” York noticed that this time there was no talk of sweet little children and what a lovely couple they were, but he said nothing. Polly continued. “Then, for a younger man like you, you might be interested in the nightlife. Oh I say that! It’s nothing like the city, of course. But we do have two bars in town. I can’t say I’ve spent any time at either, but I like to recommend them to the occasional tourist who comes through. There’s the Swery 65, that’s a sports bar, run by Richard… ah. Well, there’s also the Galaxy of Terror. That place always seems very romantic and dreamy, I’ve thought! If I were younger perhaps, but it’s not for my sort anymore. Carol MacLaine opened it not long ago and it’s been very popular. It brings a little colour to the town, certainly. Her brother, Thomas, he came by with your things a few hours ago. Though I think you may have been asleep.”

“Ah yes, that’s right, Polly,” York said. “I was, but I saw the suitcase. I’ll thank him when I see him.” He assumed then that Thomas worked with the police. Probably, seeing as he’d been sent on grunt work in the early hours of the morning, he was an assistant officer.

“Now, Mr. Morgan, would you like some coffee with your breakfast?” Polly asked. York’s face snapped into a smile at the mention of his favourite drink.

“Why yes, that would be fantastic, Polly!” he shouted. “But please, I am quite particular about coffee, so only the best, is that all understood?” The old woman laughed to herself again.

“My husband was the same way,” she said, and York got the impression that she winked at him. Although from this distance it was hard to tell. He cleared his throat and waited. Polly clambered onto her feet and went to go and brew a pot of coffee. York took the time to think over everything she’d said, idly tapping his tie as he did so.

“Well Zach,” he muttered. “That’s certainly a useful summary of life here in Greenvale. Imagine. A town so small you can learn about all the important businesses over breakfast. And I thought it seemed bigger from up on the hill.” He stopped talking as Polly returned and watched as she poured him a hot mug of coffee. He reached for the jug of milk she provided and carefully poured it in, watching the white mingle with the black liquid.

As he stared into the coffee, he felt his attention slip away from his surroundings. The hotel faded into the background. Polly vanished into nothingness. It was him and the coffee, made bigger in his mind, a round, dark shape in front of him, spinning like a wheel. It rotated and his eyes followed it round, waiting to see where the wheel would land. The milky white seemed to edge along the surface like a snake, creeping on its belly, with purpose. York could think of nothing but the circle, the wheel, as he waited for it to stop spinning. As it slowed, the milk trail spread itself out, revealing a pattern that had always been there, an inevitable shape, a truth from nothing. The white picked out against the black background as clear as words on paper, until the circle stopped and the shape was clear. As soon as he saw it, York found he was back in the room, as cleanly as if someone had just turned on the light.

Polly had returned to her seat at the far end of the table, and was drinking from her own cup. York glanced back down at his coffee, but the black and white were gone, mixed into brown. The message had vanished. But not before he’d seen it.

“Did you see that, Zach...?” he breathed. “Clear as a crisp spring morning.” He looked up and saw that Polly was watching him with a placid smile. He hoped she hadn’t caught him whispering to himself. He smiled back, letting the expression crack his whole face. He’d been told before that his smile was disconcerting. Even, from some original co-worker hoping to be funny, that it made him look like he was ‘trying too hard to be human’. The implication surely being that he was some kind of alien in a suit. Well, while that would make for an interesting story around the FBI, it wasn’t the case. Francis York Morgan was just not, as you might say, a people person.

After finishing the rest of breakfast and most of the hot coffee, something he was sure to compliment Polly on as it had come out just how he liked it, York got to his feet and made his way outside. There was a police car waiting there for him, just as Emily had promised. On the hood was a plastic folder containing a key, a note, and a local road map. He folded the map back up with the intention of putting it in the car to help him find his way around town, and read the note. It asked him not to be late and informed him that the key would work with any of the police cars in town, which he was entitled to use. It was signed by a George Woodman. York nodded to himself. The sheriff.

“Even his note manages to make me feel unwelcome,” York scoffed. He took the key, opened the car door, and climbed in, taking a second to get his bearings. The car was obviously just a repainted civilian model, although a police radio had been haphazardly inserted in place of a CD system. He hoped that whoever had done the job would not be the same person handling his precious car’s repairs. Although, in a town with a population this small, he didn’t expect better.

The drive over to the sheriff’s department was pleasant. The weather was much clearer than the previous night, and he was able to get a good first look at Greenvale. It seemed like an average Washington state town. Farmhouses and small one storey homes made up the bulk of the housing, with tiny shops and businesses inserted here and there. There were trees galore, even mingling in with the populated parts of town. It seemed that Greenvale was not just a name, but an accurate description. When he pulled up behind the sheriff’s department, he was happy to see that he was only the second car in the lot. If the sheriff wanted to argue with him about his timing, he would have to chew out his other officers as well.

♦ ♦ ♦

Inside the building, York was greeted by a man who seemed startled to see him. This stranger was tall and thin with neat black hair and, as he calmed himself, he pushed a pair of glasses further up his nose with slim, academic fingers. York waited for the other man to introduce himself first.

“H-hello!” he said a moment later, scurrying over to York like a small animal looking for leftover food. “You must be the FBI Agent. I’m Thomas MacLaine, the sheriff’s assistant here. I… brought you your things.” Thomas seemed shy to admit it, and it clicked with York that the reason was probably that Thomas had entered his hotel room while he was sleeping to deliver his cases.

“Yes, thank you, Thomas,” York said, making good on his earlier promise to thank the man. He pulled the badge out of his pocket again and showed it off. Thomas looked at it with interest despite already knowing the man’s credentials. “I’m Agent Francis York Morgan, but please call me York. Everyone does.”

“All right, Agent York,” Thomas said. “I’m afraid the sheriff and Emily aren’t here yet. They might be slightly later than usual after their late night last night. George, the sheriff that is, asked me to show you the case files if you arrived on time.” The undercurrent, that the sheriff had not expected him to arrive on time at all, was not lost on York. Apparently this George character had been so certain that he would be late that he’d not even made the effort to get to his own station first.

“Then let’s go and see it,” York agreed. Thomas hesitated, his face contorting with worry.

“I… I misplaced the key to the filing cabinet…” he admitted. York tilted his head curiously. If Thomas held his job here despite managing stunts like this, then Greenvale surely was the sleepy little town he’d imagined. Aside from the murder, anyway.

“And where do you think you left it?” York asked.

“I’m not sure,” Thomas sighed. “I found some of the keys earlier. My ring broke, you see. It was hard enough for me to find my car keys, and the filing cabinet one just seems to have disappeared. I’ll have to replace the key ring…” York raised a hand to stop him before this carried on any longer.

“I’ll find it,” he promised. Thomas’ face brightened and York admitted to himself that it was quite a sight. Regardless of the man’s skill as a police officer, he certainly had a nice smile. With that silent acknowledgement, he began a reluctant search of the police station while Thomas presumably did the same. By the end, he was quite familiar with the whole building. It was quite a small place, with some office space, a locker room, a kitchen and, in the basement, a small handful of jail cells. Which was where he eventually found the key. Thomas must have shed it while he went to check on the one prisoner they had in holding, who York guessed from the look of him was a drunk. No doubt he’d be released back onto the roads later that day. How the system worked.

York came back upstairs and went through into the conference room, a grandiose name for such a small room with just one table and a single white board. Thomas and Emily were both waiting for him. She must have arrived sometime in the last twenty minutes. She looked much the same as she had that first time he’d seen her on the bridge the night before. Her hair was brushed, but still hung down from her brow in messy locks, the kind of hair you can’t get to stay put with an hour of combing and good wishes. She had no make-up on and didn’t look like the sort of woman who usually would. The kind who’d rather spend those extra fifteen minutes staring at the morning news with a piece of toast hovering in her hand instead.

“Good morning,” Emily said. “Thomas tells me you helped him out. Are you proving yourself an asset to the investigation already, Agent York?”

“I am an asset to the investigation, Emily,” York said, being very literal minded about her joke. “I can provide a lot of context to this crime that you might miss if you only focus on the local.”

“My mistake,” Emily said frowning. She reminded herself that he didn’t seem to understand all the subtleties of humour. At least he wouldn’t waste their time joking around, she guessed.

“Did you find it, Agent York?” Thomas asked, staring up from his seat with his grey eyes wide as rainy puddles. York produced the key, dangling it in front of Thomas’ face as the younger man gasped.

“Here you are, Thomas,” York said, passing it across. “May I ask, why the squirrel keychain?”

“I like squirrels,” Thomas said. A touch defensively, York thought. “A lot of people see them as pests. Some people out here in the country even shoot at them. But I like them, they’re gentle, intelligent creatures.” York did not correct him. He knew that squirrels, certainly the common countryside type, were actually pretty vicious when cornered. A frightened squirrel could take your eye out. If Thomas liked them, however, he was not going to judge. It was always funny the things people chose to humanise. It said a lot about people, he thought. Then again, he was a profiler. It was his job to read too much into things.

“Thomas, maybe you can go and get the case file now?” Emily suggested. He got up at once, offered the two of them a stunningly professional salute, and made his way out of the room to retrieve the paperwork. Emily then turned to York.

“Before you ask, Emily, yes,” York said. “I got a very good night’s sleep.”

“I’m glad,” she said sardonically. “What I wanted to say, was please don’t start an argument with the sheriff when he gets here. He’s not exactly comfortable with outside law enforcement tagging along on this case. I think he feels as if the FBI is suggesting he can’t handle it on his own.”

“Don’t worry, Emily, I don’t intend to suggest any such thing,” York said. He could respect her attempt to keep the peace as a sign that she was a good police officer. Or at least, one with her heart and head in the right place. “I’ll stay in the background for now. I only intend to take over this case if it has implications reaching outside of local authority.”

“I see,” Emily said. The suggestion that this one murder might have far-reaching implications was disconcerting. It meant the FBI had sent York because they didn’t think this would be the only death, or perhaps that this was just the latest in a series. Neither was a comforting thought. Although even if the latter meant a serial killer was stalking their town, at least it might mean that the criminal wasn’t someone she said hello to in the grocery store.

At that point, Thomas returned, and he was not alone. Behind him was a huge figure of a man. York looked him over with interest. The new face was set in a seemingly permanent scowl, worn under a cowboy hat that York found especially telling. Out here in the country, he thought, they all wish they were cowboys. The man also had an angry scar on his left cheek. It curved down like the claw mark of some sadistic animal and ended just above the jawline. It must have hurt, York thought. Far more than his own scar: two small scratches across his cheek that he’d received recently during a case, from an assailant with razors embedded in her nails. And if York’s scar had such a colourful story attached to it, he couldn’t wait to hear the one behind this other one.

“Agent Morgan,” the stranger grunted as he came to sit opposite York. “My name is George Woodman. I’m the sheriff here in Greenvale.”

“Yes, and I’m Agent Francis York Morgan, but please call me York,” York said, despite it being clear George already knew who he was. He did not want to be called by his surname for their whole time working together. He had never taken to it. Surnames, he thought, were just less personal. If you were going to address someone, surely their name was better than their family’s?

“Emily, have you already showed Agent Morgan the case files?” George asked, turning to her. York bit his tongue at the second use of his last name. It was probably less for formality’s sake, and more because he had specifically asked to be called York. Even though he’d prepared himself for a challenge, George was more than he could have expected.

“We were just about to look through them when you got here,” Emily explained. Thomas, who had been hovering on the edge of the room, stepped forward and handed the paper folder to her before sitting down beside George. She opened it up on the desk, spreading it wide like a rib cage, ready to delve in.

York leant across to get a look at the papers. He had heard the gist of what had been found over the phone when he’d been asked to come to Greenvale, but he’d yet to see the full picture. He was intrigued.

“The victim,” Emily said, reading from the documents in a clear, professional voice that made her sound like a lawyer in court, “is a Quint Dunn. Eighteen years old. He lived locally. His father owns one of the local bars.”

“Is that a Richard Dunn?” York asked, interrupting. Emily looked at him uncertainly and nodded. He remembered Polly’s mention of the bar and the man that morning, and the sad look in her eyes when she had skipped over the details. He had thought then that the victim was probably a relation.

“Anyway,” Emily continued. “The body was found yesterday morning, in the early hours, after a search party was formed when his father reported him missing. Jim Green was the one to actually find the body. He called it in and George and I were first on the scene. After taking photos of the crime scene, the body was taken to the morgue, where it’s being autopsied this morning. Should I…” Emily hesitated, glancing between George and York. “Should I explain the condition of… the body?”

“I will Emily, “George said, “I don’t think you should have to discuss something that vile.”

“Surely as a police officer, Emily’s used to describing crime scenes?” York interjected. George glared at him and York was taken aback by the fire in his expression.

“Actually… this is my first murder,” Emily admitted. “Although I’ve been at the scene of car accidents before. But George, if you’d rather, you can carry on.” She pushed the papers over toward him and he glanced downward once before staring York straight in the eye.

“Quint was found in the old lumber mill,” George recited from memory without breaking eye contact. “It’s not in use these days, after the lumber boom ended back in the eighties. That’s why it wasn’t first on our list of places to search. I suppose teenagers might hang out there, even though the place is closed off due to being a hazard of old machinery and rotten wood. Jim Green must have thought so, because while this was still a missing person search, he decided to go and look for Quint there. Unfortunately for both Quint and his father, it seems that’s exactly where he was.”

“Poor Quint,” Thomas said. York glanced over at him. He had a hand over his mouth and it looked as if he felt sick in anticipation of the next part of the story. York wondered if he’d actually seen the body, or was just imagining the worst. Either way, it seemed likely that each member of the local police had a personal connection to the victim’s family. It was going to be hard to get objective results in this case, he thought.

“His body was laid out on a table inside the mill,” George continued. “The knife they used to kill him was still embedded in his chest. There was duct tape over his mouth. Poor kid couldn’t have cried out if he’d wanted to.” He removed his hat for a moment to scratch his scalp and shake his head in disdain. Thomas let out a tiny, choked sob, and even Emily’s mouth set into a straight, saddened line. York was far less phased.

“Then perhaps this is the time to head over to the hospital and pay this ‘poor kid’ a visit?” he suggested. He noticed another glare from George. He was almost beginning to think that the sheriff didn’t like him. He allowed himself a ghost of a smile at the thought. Zach might enjoy the joke.

“Let’s get going,” George said, smacking the table to get everyone’s attention. He acted as if it was his suggestion, York noted. “Thomas, you stay here and refile the papers. Prepare some lunch as well.” Thomas immediately began to follow instructions, the second they had left George’s lips. The two had an interesting dynamic, York thought. He followed Emily and George out of the room. Their first victim awaited them.


	3. Help Me

Chapter Three. [ Help Me ]

The whole journey to the hospital had been spent in stony silence after York insisted on driving them there. George had rejected the idea and tried to push back against it, but York had won out in the end, helped slightly by Emily’s suggestion to George that they just give him this. York couldn’t decide if she was trying to do him a favour, or just prevent a fight. He knew from experience that women didn’t tend to like him. Not that men tended to like him much more.

York found a parking spot right outside the hospital entrance. It wasn’t difficult, considering the size of the place and the very sparse collection of cars dotted about the asphalt. Although the hospital was a large building better suited to a small city, he got the impression they would find it only lightly populated.

Inside, he led the other two as they approached the reception desk. A quick look around the almost empty welcome area confirmed York’s suspicions. Despite the size of the place, this was going to be much more country morgue than hustle bustle hospital. A young, red-headed receptionist blinked up at him through her thick glasses with a smile, waiting for him to regain focus long enough to say something.

“Hello,” York said when he remembered what he was meant to be doing. “I’m Agent Francis York Morgan with the FBI.” He withdrew his badge as usual and flashed it in front of her eyes. “But please just call me York, everyone does.”

“I knew who you were!” the receptionist said in a chirpy voice. “Obviously! You just had to be the FBI agent! I’m Fiona. People tend to call me ‘Freckles’, though.” She smiled, seemingly good-humoured about the nickname that was surely based on her typical redhead complexion. York smiled in return. Although she had to be in her early twenties, this girl had a brightness and energy more commonly seen in teenagers.

“We’re here for the autopsy results,” George said, cutting in. York was amazed he’d contained himself as long as he had. If he’d been forced to ride in the car next to a badly sealed barrel of gunpowder and a box of lit fireworks, he’d still feel there would be less chance of his passenger exploding in his face.

“Of course. The doctor is down in the morgue now,” Fiona explained. York felt it was a shame that their friendly talk had been cut off so soon. She seemed like a sweet girl. Still, he would not waste George’s incredibly precious time socialising with the townsfolk. The three of them made their way down the corridor, York ahead, George as close to him as he could possibly be, and Emily following along behind.

The doctor, it turned out, had a sense of humour. Even at a time like this. When they arrived at the morgue, the door was locked. Entering the room next door revealed a connecting door that was also locked, this time with a keypad. On a table there was a small piece of paper which York read aloud.

“Pawn takes knight, queen, bishop, rook. Taken by king.”

“What is he playing at?” George said gruffly. “We need to see the autopsy report, we don’t have time for this!” York ignored him and read through the note once more in his head. Then he turned to the keypad and typed in P-K-Q-B-R-K. Sure enough, the door clicked open.

“As far as puzzles go, it wasn’t very complicated,” York explained with a shrug to an agitated George. “You don’t really need to understand how chess is played to guess what the code might be.” Turning away from George, he could not resist adding, “Do you play chess, George?” The cold silence was a satisfying answer.

York opened the door and they stepped into the morgue. The lighting was fairly dim, almost atmospheric, and there was only one gurney in the centre of the room. There was only one doctor, too, sitting at a desk in the corner hunched over a monitor. He looked up when they entered.

“You’re the FBI agent?” he asked. The doctor got up from his chair to offer his hand and York shook it. He was tall, wearing a traditional white lab coat that ran down to his shins. He had a pair of glasses on and York wondered if sitting so close to a screen all day might be the reason.

“Yes, Agent Francis York Morgan.” York offered his usual greeting. “But please, just call me York.”

“Everybody does,” Emily added with a sly smile.

“I’m Ushah Johnson, mortician, researcher, and general doctor here. It’s good to meet you.”

“Quite a résumé,” York answered. “And a fan of chess, don’t forget.” Ushah tilted one side of his mouth upward in amusement.

“That’s right,” he said. “You solved my little joke. You know if you hadn’t, I would have let you in anyway, though.” George stepped forward and York was interested to note that despite Ushah’s height, the sheriff still had an inch on him.

“We can’t waste time playing around with your games while people die, Ushah,” George snapped. “Have you finished the autopsy or not?”

“Y-yeah,” Ushah said, pulling back and quickly moving to the gurney. The shape of a body was obvious under an off-white sheet. York thought to himself that the world would be a healthier place if people became more adjusted to death. It was, after all, inevitable in every single case. But then he decided that in a world where murders like this could just happen, even if we could all adjust to death, adjusting to brutality may still be a bad idea. Ushah waited until the three law enforcers were all gathered, then drew the sheet back from the victim’s face.

It was immediately clear that the body had been left in basically the same condition it had arrived in. Ushah, ‘general doctor’ as he was, York decided, was probably not used to handling a murder and did not want to step on the police’s toes.

The boy was clearly in his late teens as Emily had said. He had the start of a beard, shaggy blonde hair, and dark blue eyes staring straight ahead. Presumably open since he’d seen his killer’s face, the last thing he ever would see. He was traditionally handsome, or would have been. It was hard to keep that image in mind when faced with what had happened to him. The duct tape remained on his face, smothering him from nose to throat. Piece after piece of angry black plastic wrapped around his face. There were places where the skin appeared red and damaged where the tape had been roughly torn back and reapplied. No doubt, York thought, he had tried to scream.

The expression that his face had chosen to freeze on was one of anguish. It was just possible to make out tear tracks down his cheeks, which implied to York a nasty reality: he was fully conscious until the moment of his death.

“What did you find, doctor?” York asked. Ushah took a small, finger-smudged notepad from the pocket of his coat and found his place.

“Quint Dunn,” he said routinely, then glanced down at the figure on his table. He, too, was familiar with the victim in life, then, York noted. He expected everyone in town had been. It would not be any easy job picking out the suspects. “There was nothing unusual in the blood that I could detect. I don’t think any kind of drug was used, meaning he probably knew his attacker.” Not that that narrowed it down, York said internally. “Although suffocation seemed like a possible cause of death, I believe he was still able to breathe through his nose. He died from blood loss.”

“I need to see the wound,” York said. George sighed roughly and he knew he was in for another argument.

“In front of Emily?” George asked. “We aren’t like you here, Agent Morgan. We’re not used to brutality like this.”

“Now George,” York said calmly. “As Emily herself pointed out earlier, she’s worked at the scene of car accidents before now, so I’m sure she’s seen a dead body before. Unless you shielded her from sight at the crime scene, she’s probably seen this one. And she is, after all, a deputy sheriff.” He turned back to Ushah. “Remove the sheet.”

“It’s fine, George,” Emily said. George did not seem to warm up to the idea, but Ushah obligingly removed the sheet covering the rest of the body. When it came into view, both Emily and George briefly averted their eyes. It was hard to tell if their reluctance was because they knew him, or because of the state he had ended up in.

Quint was dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans that had once been white and blue, respectively. The shirt was soaked through with blood and the chemical smell of the morgue was not enough to cover up the strong, cloying odour of it that remained. The blood had washed into his jeans as well, spreading as far as the knees, the splatter pattern showing that the attack had not been gentle. The cause of death was obvious. In the centre of the boy’s chest was a large, gaping wound. No, York realised as he looked at it, not one wound.

“The attacker,” Ushah began slowly, uncomfortable with the words in his mouth. “Stabbed him multiple times in the chest. The attack was violent, aggressive. Passionate. Despite how it looks now… it would not have been a quick death. The heart wasn’t punctured by any of the early stabs. It almost looks as if the earlier attacks were intended to create leverage.”

“As if the killer was trying to open him up?” York suggested. Ushah nodded stiffly. “Amazing. Almost medical in its precision.”

“You think an attack this vicious was ‘medical’, Agent Morgan?” George asked in disbelief.

“If you mean the stabbing, then no,” York answered. “But the murder? Yes. It was very precise. Very carefully planned. This killer worked to their strengths.”

“Disgusting…” George scoffed. York ignored him.

“As I was saying…” Ushah continued. “There were multiple stab wounds before the killing blow. It does seem, as you say Agent York, that the killer was trying to create a wider, deeper wound before they killed their target. That or they were trying to give themselves room to land a final devastating puncture straight through the heart.”

“Is that what finally killed him?” York asked.

“Yes, I believe so,” Ushah agreed. “The last wound through the heart is what I would consider the direct cause of death. When the killer had struck that blow, they left the knife in place for the police to find. They haven’t cleaned the body at all. They just came, killed, and left. Almost like they got bored as soon as the act was complete.”

“There’s no need to speculate,” York said. “Leave that to me.”

“Us...?” Emily sighed. York nodded his head briefly in her direction in acknowledgement.

“The murderer carved Quint up like a fresh ham,” York said, mostly to himself. No-one replied to his gory image-painting. “Whoever they were, they did not like him. I wonder what our friend did to upset someone that badly?”

“Are you suggesting he deserved it?” Emily said sharply.

“No, not at all, Emily,” York assured her. “But I do believe that our killer felt that he deserved it. In one way or another, all murderers believe that. That’s why they kill.” He stared for a second at the body. “It’s too much to hope that there were fingerprints on the knife?” he asked.

“It’s been checked,” George informed him. “Thomas did the inspection. He said it had been wiped clean. The killer probably wore gloves.”

“Always too much to ask,” York laughed. “You never can solve a mystery in the first reel.”

“This is not a joke to us, Agent Morgan!” George snarled and York dropped the point. The last thing he wanted was to rile George so much that he ended up on Ushah’s table next.

“I need a moment with the body,” York said and the others stared at him.

“The autopsy is complete,” Ushah reminded him, but York shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I’m looking for something else, something that wouldn’t show up during a normal autopsy. It’s why I joined this case.”

“But, I…” Ushah looked to George who glared back at him. York did not wait. He took a pair of waiting surgical gloves from the side of the gurney and pulled them on. Then he carefully began to peel the duct tape away from the mouth.

“Eurgh,” Emily said, shivering. She may not have been present at a lot of murders, but she had seen enough horror movies in her life to worry that York was going to tear their victim’s skin. Thankfully, the precise touch of the FBI was enough to preserve some dignity for the corpse. The tape stuck upwards, half on and half off, like an outstretched tongue, as York took a small pair of tweezers from the tools arranged at the far end of the table.

“What exactly are you doing?!” Ushah asked in dismay. York raised a finger for patience. He dipped the tweezers down into Quint’s mouth and removed them a moment later with a small prize clasped in their end.

“This,” he said simply. The other three peered down at what he had found only to be confused by the small, red seed he held triumphantly out for them. “I am now taking authority over this case,” York added. “You’re under the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

“We’re what?” George asked roughly. “Because of one little seed?”

“That’s right,” York informed him. “This seed, or rather, ones like it, have been found at the scene of multiple homicides across America. There’s something more at play here than you realise.”

“Then this is a serial killer?” Emily asked in shock. “Quint was killed by someone from out of town, you mean?”

“No, Emily, I doubt that very much,” York said. “The other homicides in which these seeds were found have been solved. A different killer brought in in each. But there is a connection between the cases none the less, a connection that I, and the FBI, are eager to uncover. This is more than just a small town murder. And it’s my job to find out just what is going on.”

As soon as the words vanished into the air, York felt himself grow cold. The room was in darkness. He was the only person left. Suddenly, without warning, the figure beside him on the table convulsed, returning to animation like Frankenstein’s monster. He watched as Quint first sat, then lifted himself up, until he was standing before York, staring up at him with his dead blue eyes stretched widely in his pale face. His lips twitched and opened and he spoke without sound.

“What?” York asked, though he could not hear his question properly. It was smothered, stuffed with cotton, existing only in the confines of this room, this moment. Echoless.

“Help me.”

Quint’s plea entered York’s ear in the same moment that the room returned to normal. He blinked. The whole vision had lasted for only a split second, though it had felt like an hour. It was as if time had stopped, but he could tell coming out of it that nothing had happened for anyone else. Of course not. No-one else had seen the murder victim return to life and beg them for help, only to crash back into death a second later. It was only him.

Just another part of his day.


	4. Crime Scene

Chapter Four. [ Crime Scene ]

York left the hospital basement with the vision still burning in his mind. He wondered what he’d have to deal with next. It was a shame, he thought, that someone had decided to kill Quint Dunn. He had a whole life waiting for him that had gone to waste. Emily had mentioned a father, but no mother. York wondered if she was dead or just absent. There would probably be a girlfriend as well. There usually would be, with a boy like that.

“Where are we heading next?” Emily asked when they were once more standing in the foyer. George grunted by her side.

“Seeing as how Agent Morgan has taken over this case, we’ll have to ask him, like good little deputies,” he said. Emily sighed quietly to herself. She’d intended her question for York anyway and she did not want to keep watching the two lawmen arch their backs at each other all day.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” York said, “but I remember some mention of lunch.”

“That’s your priority?” George scoffed in disbelief. He was about to continue his protest when a door swung open across the room, and the people who emerged drew his attention.

“Oh boy,” Emily muttered. York stared with interest at the new arrivals. There were two of them, crossing the room on their way out of the hospital. The first was a young man with dark hair in a neat, white suit. With him was an older man in a wheelchair. Or that is what York assumed. The man in question’s face was entirely covered by a plastic-y, skull-like gasmask. It did not feed into any kind of respirator as far as York could tell, so he was not wearing it to breathe. Rather, to not breathe. York, though not particularly health conscious himself, he had been known to eat food off the floor before, was aware of the trend of filtering water to prevent ‘toxins’ and decided that wearing an unnecessary air filter must come from the same place in someone’s head. In which case, the fact that the old man was outside at all was impressive. His paranoia must be a thing to behold.

“Who is Howard Hughes over there?” York whispered to Emily.

“That’s Harry Stewart,” Emily told him. “He owns half the town, but he rarely leaves his mansion. And he never speaks directly to anyone.”

“We’ll see about that, Emily,” York said with a smile. She began to shake her head slowly, but as York turned to cut the two off before they could reach the exit, she was forced to just grit her teeth and wonder if York ever got punched whilst doing his duty for the bureau.

“What is he playing at now?” George sighed to her and she simply shrugged.

York stepped in front of Harry Stewart’s chair just as it reached the pad that opened the automatic door of the hospital. The door opened behind him with a ding and the younger man directing the wheelchair looked up at him in alarm.

“Yes…?” he asked.

“I’m FBI Agent Francis York Morgan,” York said offering his badge, which neither man looked over at. “You can call me York. Everybody does. I have a few questions.” Both men once again remained silent as they waited for the questions to come. The door behind York loyally swung open and shut as he had not yet removed himself from the pressure pad. Away from the situation unfolding by the doors, Emily sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to keep from laughing.

“He’s going to embarrass this whole investigation,” George muttered. Emily couldn’t agree that it would be that bad. Still, if York expected to get Harry Stewart to talk to him, he was in for a surprise.

“Do either of you know of a Quint Dunn?” York asked, powering on ahead blindly. The young man stared straight through him for a minute before answering.

“I see then that your investigation has begun, if you’re already asking after Mr. Quint Dunn.” His voice was surprisingly sing-song.

“Hmm?” York asked, sure he had imagined what just happened. The man lowered his head til his ear was close enough for his older companion to whisper something into it. He listened for a moment then righted himself, standing as straight as a pole.

“This case is beyond the scope of the FBI, though you are still welcome to try. So says Mr Stewart.” York thought the man raised his eyebrows at him slightly. He decided he didn’t like the tone.

“Then I’ll assume that one or both of you knows something about this case,” York said standoffishly. “If you like, we can discuss this more down at the sheriff’s office. Would that be more comfortable?”

“I, that is he, only believes you will not succeed, it will not be easy to get what you need,” the young man said, carrying on without displaying any emotion. He could easily be replaced by a tape recorder, York decided. It would feel less sarcastic.

“And why is that?” York asked sharply. Before he could get his reply, George came over and took him by the arm, yanking him away from the scene as if he was a paper doll. The muscles York could make out under his leather jacket were not purely cosmetic then.

“Agent Morgan, Harry doesn’t talk to anyone,” George informed him. “He’s just a crazy old bastard who lives alone, aside from his even creepier assistant. You won’t get anywhere with them. They’re playing with you.” York quickly turned his head to look after the two and saw the younger man glance blankly at him before pushing his charge out the door of the hospital and disappear.

“I’ve never heard Harry say a single word,” Emily agreed, coming over to join the conversation. “He only ever relays messages through, hmm, I think Michael’s his name. The two of them only ever talk to each other, when they come out at all. Like I said, they just live in the mansion on the outskirts of town, just the two of them.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what Harry did before. He’s had Michael with him as long as I can remember, since I moved here. They’re never apart.”

“About six years,” George added. “That’s when he first appeared, I think. Harry never left home at all before that. Mobility issues officially, but off the record, he’s just not right.”

“Fascinating,” York said seriously. “And you say he owns half the town?”

“That’s right,” George said. “His parents made their money back in the forties and fifties. He inherited it all, and used that seed money to buy up everything in town that wasn’t nailed down.”

“I would think real estate would be nailed down, George,” York said playfully. “Or it wouldn’t be a very good investment.”

“You understood what I meant,” George spat. “Anyway, he’s always been weird and eccentric. I grew up in Greenvale, and even as a child I don’t remember him ever seeming like he was all there. But whereas I used to think he was just an old fool, I now think he just enjoys messing with people stupid enough to bite the bait. So while you’re working with my police, Agent Morgan, don’t. bite. the. bait.” He finished his rather aggressive request with a glare and York decided he had personal issues with the old man. Probably the sheriff did not like the idea that someone that rich considered themselves above the law.

“Of course not George,” York promised. “Now, about that lunch.”

♦ ♦ ♦

After eating a rather stunning lunch, York, George, and Emily were back in the car on their way to the lumber mill. York still had the taste of the biscuits Thomas had made in his mouth. They were crumbly without being too dry and buttery without being too thick. He had been sure to lay out a wide range of compliments, which Thomas had accepted with a variety of blushes and ‘oh’s and ‘thank you!’s. If he ever decided to quit the police, he had a perfectly good second career waiting for him, York had thought. He licked at a crumb that remained in the corner of his mouth. Hopefully there would be more baked goods tomorrow.

“It’s this turning,” George told him, sounding irritated that York did not intrinsically know that. York glanced at the map he had spread out on the dashboard for confirmation and turned the wheel. The lumber mill came into view a moment later. It was a huge old building that looked as if it might collapse at any moment. It could be made of matchbooks, all brown and faded, a giant unbroken shadow against the lake surface that stretched out behind it.

“That’s Lake Cranberry,” Emily told him. “It’s a nice fishing spot, but it’s not the lake you think of when you come to Greenvale. Lake Knowledge, across town, is much bigger.”

“I can see that,” York agreed. The hotel he was staying in backed out onto a huge lake, the one Emily had just mentioned, he realised now. He had noticed a high number of rivers and streams in the surrounding countryside as well. Something for all those trees to drink. When they had parked and walked over to the entrance to the mill, York stopped in his tracks.

“What is it now?” George asked.

“I’d prefer to go inside to view the crime scene by myself,” York said. George visibly balked at the idea. He let out a long, angry groan.

“Do you intend to respect us as your fellow officers, or not?” he snapped.

“I’m sorry, George, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But it will be easier for me to focus on my own, especially as you’ve already had a chance to inspect the scene. I’ll be able to take my time looking for things you might not be able to notice.” York felt he’d been fair, but George was still annoyed. The sheriff really did not want to cut him a break.

“You really don’t trust us, do you?” York was surprised. This question had not come from George, but Emily. She stood with a hand on her hip, staring at him with some confusion and a similar mixture of irritation and exasperation as George. He felt that he may have crossed a line, but he had no intention of backing down. He just had to phrase it better.

“Emily,” York said turning his attention to her. “I trust you as much as any other police officer that I haven’t had a chance to meet yet. I’m sure you care deeply about solving this murder, both of you.” He offered a minor, conciliatory glance at George too. “It’s not that. For one thing, I prefer to work alone, when it comes to the details. I can focus better. More than that though, I am simply looking for different things than the two of you. You’re trying to solve one murder. I’m trying to uncover a nationwide mystery. You can see why our interests may not perfectly match up.”

“As long as you remember that this murder has shaken the whole town, all right?” Emily said. A little sharply, York thought. “We all knew Quint. We know his father. That bar, Richard owns? I eat there at least a few times a week. Quint used to bring me dinner, and I’d ask how he was getting on at school, just make small talk. He’d just graduated and wanted to start a life with his girlfriend. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through. Do you understand? We all want this murder solved as soon as possible, because we haven’t just lost some mindless statistic, or some piece in your mystery pattern! We lost someone we knew. So you’re right, our interests ‘don’t match up’. You don’t have to trust us, but I’d ask that you respect us, York.” When she was done with her speech, Emily stared at him with what York could only describe as a raw, honest look in her eyes. He took her point.

“Let me apologise,” he said. “Working in the city, you can forget how close some communities are. I assure you that I’m as eager as you are to see the person that did this face justice. I will trust you. Emily, I can tell that you’re as dedicated as officers come, and I won’t patronise you. Please just extend the same courtesy to me and trust that my inspecting the crime scene alone is what’s best for the investigation.” He smiled at the end to make sure his words came across softly.

“All right,” Emily said, letting out a breath of air. “We’ll be here. Call for us if you need anything.”

“And remember, Agent Morgan, this mill hasn’t been active for years. It’s dangerous inside. Don’t touch anything you shouldn’t,” George finished. He had to get the last word in. York didn’t push his luck further, he nodded to the both of them and opened the door of the mill.

Inside, the first thing that struck him was the smell of sawdust. It seemed obvious, but mingled with decades of damp, it was really quite unpleasant. If teenagers really did come here to get away from their parents, York wished them the best of luck escaping the pervasive smell.

“Well Zach,” he said aloud, reaching for and lighting a cigarette. “We’ve never been in a lumber mill before.” He began walking. The mill entry way extended into a long corridor that disappeared into the darkness. He had not brought his larger emergency flashlight from the car, but had a small pocket edition inside his jacket, which he pulled out. It did its best to penetrate the artificial night of the mill.

“Tell me if you see anything, Zach,” he breathed. He was energised, hair standing up on his arms and neck. He knew what would likely follow, in a place like this. In the dark. As he crept forward, exploring the ruinous mill like a last-century archaeologist breaking into an undiscovered tomb, he began to hear a whining in his ears. A low static noise that undulated just enough to be noticeable, a vibrating frequency underneath the stale air. As he reached the end of the corridor and opened the door, the noise swelled to a crescendo in his head.

The next room was larger and had clearly once been a place of work, but all the equipment had been retired or stolen many years ago. What was left was a large metal bench, seemingly bolted to the floor. It sat on a raised platform accessible by a metal ladder built into the wall. This, York assumed, was the table where Quint’s body had been found.

As he walked into the room and set his sights on the ladder, he heard the whining wail distort, short bubbling bursts of sound layering into it. He reached for his gun. Sure enough, a moment later there were faces bleeding out of the walls. He backed up against the door and reviewed the area. He could make out four. It was hard to tell with the way the black, sticky quality of the walls moved over itself, lapping like a darkened sea. But soon enough, the shadows broke above the waves, and he confirmed four ashen faces stretching themselves out towards him. York took a deep breath and made himself promise to remain calm. There was nothing new here. It would be the same as always.

“Zach,” York said, reaching out in his time of crisis. “You help me aim, all right? You’re better at it than me anyway.” He turned to the first face which, now that it was oozing out of the inky wall behind it, was beginning to seem more than just a pair of absent eyes and a rictus smile. It was a large white figment, ghost-like, with long slender arms that seemed to be fleshless. Sun-stripped bones. The sight of it here, in the place where he knew someone had very recently died, disturbed York. He snapped his eyes shut and drew in a rough breath, forcing himself to regain focus.

When he opened them, the creature seemed more human. The arms had shortened to human proportions, and he could make out the outlines of a dress around its knees. That made it a lot easier to deal with. York let it edge closer to him and shot it when it dared too far. It disintegrated into black bubbles that in turn disappeared into the background. He turned his attention to the next one, appreciating that this one too was human enough not to trip him up. He disposed of each of the remaining three and when all had vanished, allowed himself a moment to stop and breathe. The whining noise in his ears calmed down, and he was able to tuck the gun back into its holster and bring out the flashlight in its place. He realised he had dropped his cigarette on the ground some time upon entering the room, and stubbed it out with his shoe before lighting another. The second cigarette he discarded after a few drags.

“That’s better, Zach.” He smiled to himself. “I wonder if we’ll meet any other unexpected guests.”

York went over to the ladder and pulled himself up onto the platform. He shined the flashlight across the bench and was able to confirm immediately that it was where Quint had died. Blood had splattered onto the metal, staining it an unpleasantly visceral colour. The outlines, where the blood had not reached, of his legs, arms, and torso could still be seen. There was no other immediate evidence. The body had been the largest clue, and he wasn’t looking for a missing murder weapon either. The killer had helpfully left behind the knife which they had used to kill Quint. York was sure it would turn out to be a kitchen variety, based on the clean cuts he’d seen at the morgue. It was not sharp enough or jagged enough to be anything else. Anyone could have bought it at any time, and he wasn’t going to search every kitchen in Greenvale for an incomplete knife block.

It seemed obvious to him that the body hadn’t been moved much if at all after death. The expelled blood seemed to match with that. It really did seem as if the killer had committed their violent, passionate crime and then grown bored the second it was done. It was unusual.

York tapped his tie in thought and wondered where they were now. At home with their family, perhaps? Were they pretending nothing was wrong, or was the guilt slowly eating away at them? He was eager to find out.

“There’s nothing much here, Zach,” York said aloud. He gave the flashlight a final curious flick over the table and the floor, ready to be disappointed, but stopped as it fell on a small pile by the base of the bench. Something red caught his eye. No doubt he had chalked it up as blood when he’d glanced over it first, but he had been wrong.

York crouched down and reached out to pick up the small object. It was a seed. A red seed, like the one he had pulled out of Quint’s throat. The kind that had been showing up at the scene of a lot of murders lately.

“Amazing, Zach,” he muttered, “It’s like the killer fed the seeds to him right here.” It seemed likely that was exactly what had happened. On a hunch, York brushed at the pile of wood chips that the seed had fallen into. There was something else.

York stood upright, clutching a dusty scrap of paper. It had been buried in amongst the dirt of the floor, which was presumably why it hadn’t been found by detectives who were just there to photograph the scene and remove the body. Still, it was a compelling piece of evidence in his argument to visit the scene alone. If he’d been distracted, he may never have noticed it. There were words on the paper, written in a looping, elaborate hand. To York, it looked fake. Someone had been trying to disguise their handwriting with this floral script.

“The Legend of the Raincoat Killer,” he read aloud. The final word reverberated around the huge room, bouncing back at him. He carried on down the page. “On rainy nights. You eat the seeds. You kill for him. You will be washed in glory.” York frowned and curled his lip at the words. The page cut off sharply. It looked as if it’d been torn from a notebook. The killer, or Quint, must have brought it with them. It seemed a strange artefact to find here, and yet, York knew, it was going to be important.

“Our sightseeing tour is over, Zach,” York breathed. “It’s time for us to meet this… Raincoat Killer. After all. This is practically an invitation.”

♦ ♦ ♦

George and Emily were waiting when York emerged from the mill. He was covered in dust from when, unbeknownst to them, he had fired his gun and let the ceiling rain dislodged dirt down on his head. He came over to them with a slight smile on his face.

“What do you have there?” George asked, pointing at his hand. York offered him the paper he had found. George read it through and York thought that his moustache twitched.

“Emily, George,” he said. “Do you know anything about The Raincoat Killer?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Emily said uncertainly. She tried to look over at the paper that George maintained his grip on.

“It’s an old folk legend,” George said slowly. “At least I think it is. My mother used to talk about it when I was a child… A man in a raincoat who would come out on rainy nights. I think it was one of those stories meant to scare children into being good. ‘If you won’t come inside, then The Raincoat Killer will come and get you!’ I don’t know. It must be a local legend.”

“I haven’t heard it before,” Emily said. “But then I grew up in Seattle. I only moved here about ten years ago, when I was a teenager. Maybe if it’s an old story, I never heard it?”

“That would make sense,” York agreed.

“My mother told it like it was something from when she was young,” George said, dreamily. “Maybe it was something her parents told her. I never asked.”

“I’m not surprised you didn’t ask any further questions as a child, George,” York said. “Telling a child about a murderer just to get them to behave seems extreme to me. At any rate, now that The Raincoat Killer has stepped out of their storybook, I expect parents will be careful how they talk about it.” He reached for another cigarette.

“What are you saying?” George said. “Because of one dusty piece of paper, that could have appeared in the mill at any time, you think an old legend has come to life?!”

“No, George, don’t be ridiculous,” York replied snarkily. “The Raincoat Killer is like you say, just a legend. But it’s the legend our new killer has chosen to inspire them. Because of that, we have to treat it as seriously as they would. Remember, to the murderer, this ‘legend’ is something to be revered. Didn’t you read their note?” George and Emily both glanced back at the writing. “‘You kill for him’,” York recited. “‘You will be washed in glory’. Now, doesn’t that sound like idol worship to you?”

“Nasty choice of idol,” Emily said with a sharp intake of breath. “What happened to actors and pop stars?”

“People look for reflections of themselves in all kinds of places,” York said, shrugging. He had had some interesting idols himself in his youth. Angry punk rockers had adorned his bedroom walls. But that story could wait, he wasn’t going to rehash it right now. “We just need to figure out who in town’s been looking to fairy tale killers for their inspiration.”

“Yes,” George agreed sternly. “Very well, Agent Morgan, if that’s where you think we should be focusing, I have no choice but to listen to you.”

“I’m glad you agree,” York said. He didn’t intend to be sarcastic, but it certainly came across that way. George noticeably tensed. “It would be convenient for me to meet some of the townsfolk. Inform people of the danger, and see if I can’t find anyone who matches the profile I’ve begun to shape. Can we arrange some sort of town meeting?”

“I can handle that,” Emily cut in. “I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon making arrangements.”

“Thank you, Emily,” George said softly. “Thomas can help you make the calls. We’ll bring in local business owners, anyone close to the victim, pillars of the community. Get a range of people.”

“Of course,” Emily agreed.

“That means you, Agent Morgan, can take the rest of the day off,” George said. “Emily will handle the preparations. You go home and report in to your bosses, or whatever it is you want to do with your free time.” He tipped his hat to York briefly and York wished he could make a similar gesture of staged politeness.

“I’ll let you out when we go past the station,” York said, implying heavily that despite it being the end of their work day, he would still be driving. George grunted in acknowledgement and they returned to the car. On the drive back, York considered everything he’d learnt over his first day in Greenvale. There were some interesting people in town, that was for sure. It would be hard to pick out the criminals from the characters. He would have to spend the evening preparing for what he would say at the meeting. With what he’d learnt at the mill, he was going to have to choose his words very carefully.


	5. York’s First Dream

Chapter Five. [ York’s First Dream ]

I am standing in a red room. Room, that might be too literal. There are no walls. Though there are doors.

I’ve been here before. This is the other world.

I come here in dreams. This is where Zach lives.

Red petals fall from the dark sky above. There are logs stacked around the edges of the ground. Even without walls, I’m boxed in. As the petals reach the ground, they shatter, and become dozens, hundreds, of those red seeds. The floor is littered with them. Maybe there is no floor, only seed.

As my eyes focus, I can see two chairs ahead of me. There are two boys sitting down. I find it hard to make out their features, but I know intrinsically that they are identical. They’re young. Six years old?

“Make have to help need for to solve this case. All needed can have,” the right child says. His voice whines like a fast-forwarding tape recorder. It’s hard to make out the words. I think he’s telling me I need help to solve this case. All the help I can get.

"We not to be are surface has. Greenvale. Not for seems," the second twin says, in a similar, even higher voice. Something about Greenvale. Not what they seem? Greenvale is not what is seems on the surface?

I take a step towards the children and as I do so they vanish in a cloud of red smoke. That’s surprising. Were they really there? I can’t picture their faces.

“Zach? Did you see them too?” I ask.

“Yes, I saw them.”

“Who were they?” I ask.

“Do you remember the twins Polly told you about? It may have been them,” Zach answers. I realise he’s probably right.

The petals are still falling. Still bursting into piles of seeds at my feet. Where are they falling from? I don’t see any trees.

As I look up, I see that they are not petals.

Above me, I can see the body of Quint Dunn, as it must have looked when Emily found him. The petals are falling from him. One of them lands on my face and I can feel its liquid texture. The petals are thick droplets of blood.

Quint is floating. His arms are spread wide, as they would have been on the table. From below, he looks like a snow angel. But these are not snowflakes he’s shedding.

I look down at the floor. The petals, or droplets, that reach the ground still burst into puddles of seed. They’re splashing.

“What does it mean, Zach?” I ask. He doesn’t answer straight away. I have to ask again.

“Things aren’t right in Greenvale,” he tells me at last.

“I know,” I say. “There’s a killer on the loose.” As I say it, the door in front of me opens.

The figure that emerges is more concrete than any shadow I’ve seen so far. I could almost believe we were actually in the room together. They wear a long coat, brown maybe originally, but as the rain of petals descends on them, it is blotted a bright red. The cowl covers their head and face. All I can make out are the eyes, faintly, glinting in the darkness.

The Raincoat Killer.

They move towards me, dwarfing me in terms of height. This shadow is a hulking creature, strong enough to suffocate someone with their hand, or snap an arm like a branch.

“Zach, what do I do? What do I do, Zach?” I ask.

“Just wait,” he breathes. “Don’t rush! You’ll be safe if you just wait!”

“Zach…?!” I call out. No more answers. As The Raincoat Killer comes close enough to touch me, the world fades away. There’s white. There’s white. Then black. Then nothing.

I’m awake.


	6. Town Meeting

Chapter Six. [ Town Meeting ]

It was early afternoon and York had driven over to the community centre early to take in the view. He’d got a call from Emily after breakfast telling him the town meeting was scheduled for that afternoon, and that he needn’t worry about showing up to the sheriff’s department today. Just make sure he arrived on time to address the townsfolk. York had taken her at her word and enjoyed a long, leisurely breakfast with plenty of hot coffee and some more friendly, if strained, conversation with Polly. She seemed to hear every other sentence.

After breakfast, he had managed to ask her about laundry, and she explained she’d be willing to wash anything he had for a small service charge. She even agreed to mend the damage done to the suit he’d been wearing during his car crash. Which had reminded him that he still didn’t know where they had taken his car for repairs. At this rate, he just hoped it wouldn’t end up on a scrapheap. He made a mental note to ask Thomas later. After all, he’d been there when they towed it. He had to have been to retrieve York’s bags for him.

York had considered following up on Polly’s advice about the diner, the one with the name that was two letters, for lunch, but thought better of it. He’d prefer to meet the townspeople all together at the town meeting, rather than get familiar with anyone beforehand. It would not do to start forming personal connections before he could run everyone through his personal profiling system. Once he’d begun dismissing people as suspects, he’d feel more comfortable eating their food.

Instead, he’d bought something from the vending machine for later and gone for a drive. Despite the unfortunate circumstances that had dragged him here, Greenvale was definitely a pretty place. The rivers were all clear and blue and the trees overhead made your every step outside feel like walking in the park. He’d parked outside the community centre almost an hour ago and gone for a long winding walk round the back, enjoying the sight of the woods off to the side and the tall, elegant clock tower reaching up into the sky. The sound of the bell ringing was another nice surprise.

“You don’t hear that in the city, Zach,” York mused. “Everything’s too loud.”

When he eventually found his way back around to the front of the building, people were beginning to arrive. He did not recognise most of the faces, although Thomas was there already. He considered saying hello, maybe even asking about his car, but he didn’t want to risk being swarmed by concerned townspeople. He could already see them talking to each other in little worried huddles. He would wait until Emily and George arrived and go in with them. No-one noticed him waiting in the shadow of the community centre, or if they did they did not approach him. It was a fair distance from the parking lot itself, being such a large building. When he finally saw George’s car pull up and the sheriff and his deputy climb out, he walked over to the entrance to meet them.

“So you found the place then?” George grunted. York thought that he might have hoped he wouldn’t be on time, so he’d have another reason to berate him. What a sad moment for George.

“I came by early to enjoy the place,” York replied. Then rested his hand on the door. “Shall we?”

♦ ♦ ♦

“I’m sure that most of you have heard the tragic news of Quint Dunn’s death,” York went on, leaning close to the microphone and trying to ignore the static whine. He had already introduced himself, and was trying to hurry through the formalities so he could have a chance to talk to people one on one. It was a good turnout. He should commend Emily’s organisational skills. She was sitting next to him on the stage, at the makeshift desk that had been arranged for their conference. George sat on the other side of him, and Thomas sat past Emily at the far end, making notes.

“What we must do in a time like this, is come together.” York said, trying to make sure he was heard at the back of the room. A lot of people, he noticed, had chosen to sit further back from the stage. Either he was intimidating to the local folks, or more likely, they wanted to whisper to each other during his speech. “You must look out for each other,” he carried on. “Check in with your neighbours. Keep up to date with what your children are doing. Don’t let them go out alone at night. If you all look out for each other, the murderer will have less chance of finding an opportunity to strike again.” At this suggestion there were many unhappy murmurs throughout the room. York was surprised the idea hadn’t occurred to people.

“There is no current evidence that this is the work of a serial killer,” George butted in. “Although we should all be careful until the criminal is behind bars, there’s no need to panic.” He glared at York who carried on regardless.

“We do not yet know the motive for the crime,” York said. “From what I understand, Quint was a popular boy who was well-liked in this community. For this reason, we cannot rule out that this was the work of a serial killer.” More murmurs and agitated whispers. “Although we also cannot rule out that it was a single, tragic crime. Either way, I will find the killer.” He stopped for a moment, considering his next move. “Now, some of you may be familiar with a local legend…”

“York, really?” Emily whispered.

“The legend of The Raincoat Killer,” York said. There was silence in the room. He could feel George’s eyes trying to bore into his skull like little red lasers. “I believe our killer has drawn inspiration from this fairy story, so if any of you know of anyone with a particular, or unhealthy, interest in that story, please inform the police.”

“Again, this is not confirmed,” George said, grabbing the microphone. “This is merely a possible, undeveloped lead.”

“Please contact the police with any potentially useful information you might have,” Emily added. “If you know someone who has been acting strangely, or saw anything on the night in question, please let us know. We’d rather investigate a false lead than ignore a real one.”

“Thank you, and remember to stay indoors after eleven at night, especially when it’s raining,” York finished. “Please do not leave yet, as I want to –” He was interrupted. As he was asking people to stay back, the door next to the stage opened and the same pair he’d met at the hospital appeared. The old man, Harry, was once more wearing the eerie mask over his face. His caretaker pointed him towards the stage, then sat down beside him in a free aisle seat and crossed his legs. York thought it was unsettling that the old man never moved. Not his arms, not his head. He seemed to just sit staring straight ahead at all times, making no sound. If he turned out to be dead, York wouldn’t be surprised. He’d seen stranger things working for the FBI. Hopefully this wouldn’t turn out like a Hitchcock movie though, not when he was already chasing a fantastical serial killer. And not to mention dealing with George Woodman. He definitely had enough on his plate.

“Harry… always has to make an entrance,” George complained, turning his mouth from the microphone.

“As I was saying, please do not go too far,” York said. “I wish to speak with everyone who has even a tangential interest in this case, and anyone who considers themselves knowledgeable about the local community. You could all have valuable information. Thank you.” He nodded and a ripple of sound carried through the audience as people began to discuss the meeting. Several people were already beginning to get up and leave. York didn’t have a problem with that. Surely some people knew they couldn’t provide any useful information, and they were better out of the way. Besides, for the killer to show up to the meeting only to leave right before he could speak to them would be suspicious. Either they wouldn’t have come, or they would still be here. It depended on how bold they were feeling. He got to his feet.

“York,” Emily said, catching him before he could get off the stage.

“Yes, Emily?” he asked.

“Be tactful,” she asked. “I’m sure everyone will be responsive if they don’t feel like they’re being questioned by the police. OK?”

“Of course,” York agreed. She smiled hopefully. As York climbed down from the stage with his first target in sight, he felt George step down beside him. He would not be questioning people alone, then. After all, how dare he try and keep the sheriff out of his plans. York should send him a fruit basket to make up for it.

“Agent Morgan,” George acknowledged. York smiled at him in his standard friendly way.

“George,” he said. They clearly both had the same idea about who they’d be talking to first. George was already blocking the door they’d arrived through. Feeling the mood in the air, Michael got to his feet and stood with his hands tucked behind his back, waiting.

“Hello again,” York said. “I didn’t get your name when we met before.”

“Mr. Stewart is –”

“No, sorry,” York immediately interrupted. “I meant _your_ name.”

“Hm.” The man stared through him again and York almost thought he found the question rude. He took a moment to answer. “My name is Michael Tillotson. Hopefully now introductions are done.”

“They are,” York said. He looked instead at the man in the wheelchair who still, he had noticed, had not moved at all. “And you’re Harry Stewart, I’ve heard. You were late to the meeting, and yet I would have thought someone with such an investment in Greenvale would make it his business to be here. You own a lot of property here in town, isn’t that right?”

“Mr. Stewart was delayed –” Michael began and York held out a palm to stop him.

“I was asking Harry,” he said firmly. “He’s well enough to be outside, surely he can speak for himself? Am I wrong?” Michael looked at him coldly. Harry did not answer, whether he was able to or not.

“I told you,” George said. “The two of them don’t want to play ball with the rest of us.”

“I see,” York said. “So then, Michael.” He turned back to the younger man. “Let’s leave Harry out of it for a moment. Did you know Quint?”

“I will speak for Mr. Stewart at your request,” Michael said. “Talking to him may be what’s best.”

“Ah, but I’m interested in what you have to say, Michael,” York said in as friendly a voice as he could manage. He remembered what Emily had said and made sure to smile. “You can’t be much older than Quint was. Did you know him at school?”

“He’s never been to school,” George interrupted. “I told you, Agent Morgan, the two of them don’t interact with anyone else. Only each other.” He stared down at Harry Stewart who made no indication that he was paying attention to any of the conversation, no matter how central a figure in it he was. “Isn’t that right, Harry?” George snapped. “You wouldn’t tell us anything even if you knew exactly what happened to that boy! Isn’t that right?”

True to form, Harry Stewart said nothing at all.

“Mr. Francis York Morgan,” Michael said. “Mr. Stewart came today to aid your investigation, into the legend that requires explanation.”

“Ah yes, the legend of The Raincoat Killer,” York said. He did not miss the fact that Michael had ignored every one of his questions, but he was beginning to side with George. Trying to get either Harry or his aide to talk would be like nailing honey to a tree. He would take what he could get for now. “I thought it might be an older story. Does Harry remember something about it?”

“Mr. Stewart would like to convey through me, that the legend is more than just a story,” Michael said. “You should not ignore the truth, that comes from the time of his youth.”

“That’s fascinating, Michael,” York said. “There’s some truth to that story, is there? I wonder if you’d be willing to come down to the sheriff’s department and make a statement about that.” He saw Michael’s eyes widen for a brief second before setting back into his frozen, unemotional front. Suddenly, before either of them could say anything else, Harry jerked his head towards Michael and York could just hear the sound of him muttering something under his breath. York’s heart beat faster than he liked, but it had been like watching a statue come to life.

Michael leant down to listen to the almost inaudible words, and, when he righted himself again, York knew he would not be getting anything more from either of them.

“Mr. Stewart wishes you luck in solving this crime,” he said, “But for today, we have run out of time.” He bowed his head briefly and made his way round to the back of the wheelchair. The two of them disappeared swiftly towards the back of the room without a single unnecessary word.

“They’re freaks,” George scoffed. “But ignore them. Harry might be an oddball, but he can’t leave that chair. I doubt either of them knows anything, he’s just playing with you.”

“Thank you for that opinion, George,” York said. “It seems I don’t have much choice, unless I plan on arresting him…”

“You–!” George gasped angrily. York shook his head with a single laugh.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go doing that. I have learnt a little bit about law enforcement during my years at the FBI, after all.” York smirked. George sighed and shook his head, clearly just as frustrated as ever by York’s manner. He retreated back to the stage to talk with Thomas and Emily, and York was glad to see he’d be handling the other members of the public by himself. During his ‘chat’ with Harry Stewart, most of them had left their seats and gone through to the old building’s reception area, where he hoped they would still be waiting to speak with him.

“Well Zach,” York muttered under his breath. “Let’s see if everyone in town is as friendly as George and Harry.”


	7. Closed Circle

Chapter Seven. [ Closed Circle ]

The reception area showed clearly that the community centre had once been a theatre. There were grand staircases leading up to the balcony from which one could file into the theatre hall, and the walls were still, in places, decorated with red velvet curtains. York looked around at all the people who had gathered there. It was hard to decide where to start. Just as he was thinking it, he noticed the doctor from the hospital talking with his receptionist and decided it was as good a place as any.

“Hello Ushah,” York said. Ushah turned and offered him a grin.

“Agent York,” he said. “Quite a speech. The Raincoat Killer, huh? Tell me, what’s the policy on arresting fictional characters?”

“Fictional,” York answered and the two of them shared a quick laugh over the joke. Fiona joined in. “How are you today, Fiona?” York asked and she smiled cheerfully back at him.

“I’m fine, Agent York!” she said. “But the doctor is right, you don’t really think a children’s story has anything to do with this, do you?” Her face darkened.

“A children’s story? No, Fiona, I don’t,” York said. “But criminals can find inspiration in all kinds of things. That’s why we have to tread carefully until we know more.”

“Wow…” Fiona breathed. She seemed to be carried away by the drama of it all.

“So the two of you know Greenvale and its characters,” York said. “Where should I start asking questions?”

“Actually, I haven’t lived here that long,” Ushah admitted. “This is sort of my retirement plan.”

“Retirement?” York asked with a suppressed laugh. The man in front of him was younger than he was, attractive, and clearly just reaching his prime. Hearing him talk of retiring felt like a prank.

“I made my money,” Ushah shrugged, flattered but uncomfortable. “I wanted to pull back. Do research. That’s why I came here.”

“From L.A.!” Fiona added gleefully. “Ushah was a real big shot!” York saw the earnest way she smiled at Ushah and realised she had a crush on him. Ushah, if he knew, didn’t react to it. He only seemed embarrassed to be the centre of attention.

“Well, that’s good to know,” York said. “If our killer surprises me, I know you can patch me up.”

“Don’t joke!” Ushah said seriously. “I don’t want to think about what someone like that could do. I don’t see how you manage to put yourself in danger everyday hunting them down.”

“Someone has to,” York said, shrugging his shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are plenty of other people I need to see.” The two of them said a quick goodbye to York, and he descended the stairs to find his next person of interest.

The first thing that caught his eye was a big gaggle of people, clearly a family, sitting on and around a bench right at the bottom of the stairs. There was an old man in dungarees, and a man in a leather jacket standing up, clicking his fingers and clearly stuck in his own head. The mother, still wearing an apron as if she’d come straight from work, was tucking her blonde hair behind her ear and trying to get her kids to sit down. There were two of them. Small blonde twins. So this, he realised, was the Ingram family. When he reached them, the mother smiled up at him and the older man, probably her father he decided based on the resemblance, looked at him with suspicion.

“Kids, will you sit down for a moment while we talk to the nice man?” she asked. As if sensing that she meant business, the two of them stopped rushing about and went and sat beside their grandfather, smiling curiously up at York in a way he found mildly unnerving. Maybe it was just because of the dream.

“Hello,” York said. “I’m Agent Francis York Morgan, but you can call me York. It’s what everyone calls me.”

“Agent York, yes,” the woman said. She had a friendly attitude about her and York supposed it must come in handy running the store Polly had mentioned. “I’m Lilly. Lilly Ingram. This is my husband, Keith.” She placed a hand on his arm and he seemed to come back down to earth all at once. Aside from the leather jacket, he had a few days’ worth of stubble, sideburns, and spiky hair. He was also about ten years younger than his wife. They must complete each other well, York thought, or they’d drive each other crazy.

“Yo, man,” Keith said breezily. “You’re the FBI guy.” York wondered what he was doing in Greenvale. Surely he should be behind the counter of a surf shop somewhere in California.

“And these are our two kids,” Lilly said, gesturing behind her. “Isaach and Isaiah. Say hello.”

“Hello!” one of the twins said. The one in green. York thought that was Isaach, based on the way Lilly had motioned to them.

“Hello!” the other, Isaiah, said. This one was wearing blue. It must be the only way anyone but their mother could tell them apart, York thought. Looking at the way their father was spaced out, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d got them the wrong way round once or twice.

“You’re going to solve this crime quickly, aren’t you?” The old man sitting on the bench said. “That’s why they’ve brought you here?”

“Why yes, I hope to,” York said. “And you are, Mr…?”

“This is my father,” Lilly said, almost apologetically. “Jim. I’m afraid he’s lived here in the country all his life, and he doesn’t really trust city folk.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Jim added. “But I don’t want my grandsons to be influenced by the ways of the city. All this violence. You understand?”

“I can respect that, Jim,” York said. “I’m sure if I was in your position, I’d agree. I know I must stink of the city.” He compared Jim’s beaten up dungarees, the kind clearly used for work, and faded plaid shirt with his own neat, dark suit and striped tie. They seemed about as opposite as it was possible to be. Lilly smiled, glad that there wasn’t going to be any kind of disagreement.

“Agent York,” she said. “Can I speak to you alone a moment?” York acquiesced and the two of them stepped away from the group. Lilly’s smile faded slightly as they did. “I know this is a lot to ask,” she said gently, “but we haven’t exactly told the boys that Quint is, well… dead.”

“You haven’t?” York asked. It was an interesting choice. He’d got used to the idea of death as a very young child, but he supposed it wasn’t what every parent wanted for their own children.

“No,” Lilly admitted. “So if you could avoid using the ‘m’ word around them, I’d appreciate it. My dad kept them out here during the meeting, so… they really don’t know anything about it. If they knew he was murdered, it would really upset them. They’ve never even seen a pet die, they’re only young. And Quint was dating Becky, she works at the store with us some days. The boys and she are close, so it’s already hard. I know it would hurt them…” she trailed off, but York understood her point. He was happy to oblige.

“I understand, Lilly,” he said. “I won’t bring it up in front of them.” Lilly’s face brightened at once.

“Oh, thank you!” she said. “Come by the Milk Barn anytime you’re in town, and my husband and I will treat you right. I promise!” She gave him a quick wink and walked back to join her family. York turned away to face the wall.

“Zach, did you notice?” he muttered. “She mentioned a girlfriend, Becky. I wonder where she is today.” He looked carefully around the room, trying to spot anyone who might be the girl in question. Quint was eighteen, he assumed his girlfriend would be a similar age. Finally, his gaze settled on a girl of around the right age standing with an older woman, presumably her mother. She looked lost. York approached the two of them.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Agent Francis York Morgan, but please call me York. Are you Becky?” The girl stared at him. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes. She was pretty, York noticed.

“No,” she said. “I’m Anna. Becky couldn’t come.”

“The FBI Agent,” the woman with her said, holding out a hand which York shook. “I’m Sallie Graham. You know, Anna is Becky’s best friend. It’s been so hard for her.”

“Yeah, mom,” Anna said. She sounded uncomfortable and York felt it was because her mother sounded slightly drunk. He wondered if it was the case. “Becky’s at home… she’s been stuck inside crying since Quint died.” She stared at the ground.

“She didn’t want to come today?” York asked.

“You don’t realise what this is like,” Sallie pushed on. “For Becky, for Anna, for all of us! Richard is… he’s just… I forget.” She touched her temple and York changed his mind. He no longer suspected she was drunk. It was a fact.

“Yeah…” Anna said. “She and Quint were together for ages.” York had hoped for slightly more than teenage relationship gossip, but between the two of them, it didn’t seem they had much more to give him. He noticed that Sallie spoke of Richard as if the two were close, though.

“Is Richard here today?” he asked. Sallie snorted with laughter and shook her head.

“After his kid died?” she asked. “Oh no! He’s at home. He hasn’t been outside. Quint was everything to him since his wife left. I know what that’s like…”

“Dad died, mom,” Anna said, furrowing her forehead. “He didn’t leave.”

“Well, he’s gone,” Sallie said, making a face at York. “That’s what matters, right?”

“I’m very sorry that happened to you,” York said. Sallie nodded, but she wasn’t listening to him. Seeing as it wasn’t yet evening, he wondered how early in the day he’d have to stop by to catch her at her best. If she was close to the victim’s father, she might have something to share with him.

“I dunno what I’d do without my Anna,” she said, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and smiling, Anna smiled back. “You’re gonna make it safe for our kids, right?” she asked sharply, narrowing her eyes at York. “Anna will be safe?”

“I promise, I’ll do my best,” York said. “As long as you keep her inside after dark, she should be fine.” Anna turned her smile on him, and Sallie gave a small noise of acknowledgement.

“I will,” she said. “Bad enough Richard has to go through it.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, there are still more people for me to meet,” York said. The two said goodbye to him and he went off to see who was next. After a moment of searching, he saw another couple he hadn’t yet seen standing in the corner, talking. The man was brown-haired and wearing a worn hooded jacket, in contrast to his partner, who wore a spotless waitress uniform and an expensive looking cardigan. Her hair was pulled up in a meticulous golden bun above her head. They both looked to be in their mid-thirties. York approached them and both jumped at his sudden appearance.

“Hello, I’m –” he began.

“The FBI agent,” the man said over him. “We know.”

“You can call me York,” York said with strained politeness. He did not get anything close to a smile in return from the man, who seemed to treat scowling as a sport. He could almost give George a challenge.

“I’m Olivia,” the woman said hesitantly. “And my husband, Nick. We’re the Cormacks.”

“Ah yes, from the diner,” York remembered. Olivia smiled nervously and nodded. She kept glancing at Nick, he thought. Maybe she was embarrassed by his brashness.

“We were so sorry to hear about Quint,” she went on. “He seemed like a nice boy. He came in to eat a lot. Oh… it’s sad.”

“Did you know him well?” York asked.

“No,” Nick said flatly. “We barely knew him. We’re too old to be friends with teenagers.”

“I see,” York said. Although it was hard for him to imagine, he felt that if he was the one being questioned by an FBI agent, he might be more friendly. “Do you have anything you think might be useful to share?”

“No,” Nick said again, in the same plain, unfriendly tone.

“I’m sorry we can’t be of more help,” Olivia said apologetically. “But you’re welcome to come by the diner anytime! Our speciality is turkey, turkey sandwiches.”

“I do love turkey sandwiches,” York said, briefly forgetting the investigation and thinking with his stomach. Regardless, he would be going there soon, he was sure.

“Nick makes them very well,” Olivia said, adding, “he’s a brilliant cook.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Nick added. Brilliant cook or not, he wasn’t a socialiser.

“Thank you for the offer,” York said. “I’ll see you there soon.” He excused himself. No wonder Polly hadn’t described them in the same flattering light as the Ingrams. There was definitely something between them that didn’t want to stay buried.

York spoke with a few other people who had decided to hang around. There was the couple who ran the local gas station: an unpleasant, oil-stained man who refused to say anything much beyond a few choice insults, and his wife, his third wife apparently, who was slightly too young for him and far too bouncy for a town meeting about a killer on the loose. She flirted, and he asked if this murder would affect business. Neither of them seemed to care that someone was dead, and York doubted they had the ability to look past their own noses long enough to get involved with something like this.

Next there was an old woman wearing oven mitts and holding a pot. She was missing a shoe. Aside from telling him that her name was Sigourney, she had basically nothing to say, and he considered her too far removed from reality to know anything much. He wondered how she had even found the place.

After her, he spoke with a well-aged man with a sensitive voice who called himself Wesley. He explained that he worked as a gunsmith in town and had only just returned from an appointment in Seattle. He gave an address where he had been staying, and York fully expected the alibi would check out. Wesley told him that if he needed to buy any extra ammo while he was staying in town, he had a shop. York thanked him.

The last person he spoke with was an old man wearing an army uniform who scoffed at his attempts at conversation. The man, Lysander, and General at that, informed him that he ran the local salvage yard and that he thought York was already making a mess of things. Unless he was interested in learning a thing or two or buying some spare car parts, they didn’t have a thing to discuss. York was impressed by his plain way of speaking and asked him straight away where he had been on the night of the murder. General Lysander had, he said, spent the night in hospital, after his bad leg had been giving him trouble. He informed York that people who had served their country sometimes had something to show for it, and invited him to look and see. York declined. Tough as the man wanted to seem, he was still too old to fit with York’s idea of the killer. He laughed off York’s discomfort and got up to leave, clapping him on the back and telling him he’d learn with time. As he left, York realised that this was surely the man in charge of fixing his car. He didn’t know how to feel.

York returned to the hall to go and talk with the rest of the police force now that he’d worked his way around the crowd. However, he noticed that Thomas was talking to someone he hadn’t met. She must have managed to avoid him entirely. As he walked over, he found it stranger and stranger for her to be speaking with Thomas. Thomas, he had noticed by now, was shy and reserved. This girl was not. She was wearing a fashionable leather jacket and a pair of tight jeans, as well as red high heels. She tossed her head as she spoke and he could see a cigarette in her hand. When he reached the two of them she went silent.

“Who’s your friend, Thomas?” York asked. Thomas bit into his lip.

“This is my sister, Carol,” he said. York remembered Polly mentioning Carol. The owner of the dreamy bar, somewhere in town. The Galaxy of Terror, named after the movie, he supposed.

“Carol,” York said. “I’m Agent York. I’m sure Thomas has mentioned me.”

“Yeah,” Carol said. She certainly managed to sound standoffish for someone who barely came up to his shoulder. “You’re going to be snooping around, right?”

“Snooping?” York asked with mock surprise. He was unable to prevent the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. Her aggression was just so unapologetic, it amused him. “I’ll be trying to solve a murder, Carol. Your brother is a police officer. Surely you don’t have a problem with our authority…?”

“Stay out of my way,” she said. She’d make a good match for George, York thought. They’d be like cats and dogs. Which made Thomas the unfortunate mouse in the mix.

“Of course,” York said dryly. “I’m sure we won’t run into each other at all.” Carol sniffed and put her cigarette in her mouth. Thomas glanced awkwardly between the two of them.

“A-agent York,” he said. “Did you get what you needed from the townspeople?”

“Yes, just about, Thomas,” York said. “Although I notice the girlfriend is absent. Becky something. We’ll have to pay her a visit tomorrow.” He turned to Carol who helpfully blew smoke back in his face. How she and Thomas were even the same species, he did not know. “Carol, do you know Becky?” he asked.

“She was a couple of years below me in school. I don’t know her,” Carol said. Contradictory, York thought. He decided she did know her and didn’t want to admit it, which probably meant she knew Quint as well. That could certainly explain her attitude.

“Hey, Thomas,” Emily said, appearing behind them. Carol took the interruption as a chance to disappear. She walked straight for the exit and York wondered just how many times they were going to cross paths during this investigation.

“Emily,” York said before Thomas could answer. “I’ve finished speaking with everyone, you can let them know that everyone can go home now.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” she said sarcastically, folding her arms. She was still impressed by his tendency to order people around. And never say please. “Thomas, George wants to get something to eat after this, are you game?”

“Oh! Yes, sure,” Thomas said. He and Emily both found their eyes falling on York. They hadn’t invited him, and it suddenly felt deliberate.

“York, if you want, you can…” Emily started, but George overheard from his position on the stage. He immediately found it crucial to interrupt.

“I don’t think Agent Morgan needs to join us,” he said. “Not when he’s going to be busy picking apart the character of everyone in town. I wonder who he’ll be pinning the murder on. Maybe Polly?” His face twisted into a little smirk. He’d amused himself. York did not entirely appreciate the implication that he was just there to rifle through their merry town and dig out all the bad seeds for everyone to see. But there would be no placating George.

“That’s all right, Emily, I need to get back to the hotel and make plans anyway,” he said. She seemed ever so slightly disappointed, he thought. Or hoped. It would be nice to be missed. “Tomorrow we’ll pay Becky a visit.”

“Becky Ames?” George said. “You want to go and disturb that poor girl right after she lost her boyfriend? Maybe we could round the day off by going through Richard’s laundry.”

“That’s not the worst idea, George,” York said. “We’ll need to visit him too. But don’t worry. If you don’t want to disturb them, I can do it alone.” George pressed his face close to York and scowled.

“You won’t threaten the people of this town while I’m sheriff,” he said coldly.

“I’ll go with him,” Emily said quickly. “With two of us, it shouldn’t be too overwhelming, and I can prevent York from making any kind of faux pas. Is that all right, George?”

“I trust you, Emily. Just keep an eye on him,” George said. “Thomas! Let’s go and get the car started.” Thomas trotted obediently after him and Emily gave York a tired sigh.

“I know you didn’t mean to get him started,” she said. “But try a little harder, okay? I’ll meet you at the hotel tomorrow and we can go and talk to Becky and Richard.”

“That sounds perfect, Emily,” York said, smiling at her. She gave him a small smile back before saying goodbye and following after George and Thomas. York was glad to be working with her. She was much more tolerable than George. If it was just him and the sheriff, he doubted the case would get solved at all.

York waited alone in the cavernous room for a few minutes. He wanted to give everyone else a chance to file out so he wouldn’t run into the townspeople again before he had to. He was already coming up with ideas, thoughts, connections to explore. The residents of Greenvale really were a tapestry. The town had all kinds of people living in it. And one of those people wasn’t what they seemed.


	8. Late Arrivals

Chapter Eight. [ Late Arrivals ]

The next morning, after breakfast, York was waiting outside the hotel. He didn’t have to wait long before Emily drove up in her oversized car, blasting dance music out the window. She opened the passenger door for him and waited for him to climb up.

“Hey,” she said warmly. “Did you eat?”

“Yes, Polly makes far too much food at breakfast,” York told her. “I think she misses cooking for more guests.” Emily laughed and started up the car.

“I guess she does,” she agreed. “Now, where are we going first?”

“Where does Quint’s girlfriend live?” York asked. “I want to start with her. I’m surprised she didn’t come to the town meeting.” Emily sighed and her hair danced at the edge of her mouth.

“She didn’t come for the same reason his dad didn’t come,” she said, “They’re not handling it well. I’d like to see you do better, considering the circumstances.”

“I think I could handle it perfectly well,” York said matter-of-factly. Emily scoffed at him.

“That’s arrogant,” she said. “You clearly don’t know what it feels like to lose someone that close to you.” York considered her for a moment. Then, in a softer voice, he said something that made her take her eyes off the road.

“I do. I lost both of my parents when I was a child.”

“You…” Emily glanced between York and the windscreen, eventually managing to focus on her driving, but her tone had gone from serious to guilty. “I… I didn’t realise that. You seem… I didn’t expect…”

“It’s quite all right, Emily,” York said. He was speaking somewhat dreamily. As if he wasn’t really in the room. “It happened a long time ago. I didn’t bring it up to make you feel bad, you were merely wrong in your assessment and I felt the need to correct you. I don’t want you to believe something about me that isn’t true.”

“Still…” Emily said. “I’m sorry. Really.” She had noticed that at points York seemed to go stiff. He chose his words more carefully and didn’t look people in the eye. Although she didn’t yet know him well, it seemed in contrast to the friendly, jokey persona he adopted at points. She wondered which one was the front.

“It’s fine,” York said, eager to move past it, wondering if he regretted bringing it up. He didn’t think so. Emily seemed trustworthy, and he felt that even without asking her specially not to, she wouldn’t tell anyone else. “How far away is Becky’s house?”

“Quite far,” Emily admitted. “We have to drive almost halfway round the lake.” The conversation lapsed for a moment and they drove in silence. York stared out the window at the gentle surface of Lake Knowledge. It was a clear day and the water sparkled in the sunlight, like someone had dropped hundreds of tiny mirrors, and they were all blinking back at him as he went past.

“What do you do for fun, Emily?” York asked suddenly.

“Hmm.” She took a second to mull it over, which he appreciated. It meant she was going to give a real answer. “I like to watch movies,” she said. “I like music. I spend some time practicing my aim, just in case.” She smiled to herself. “Not that I’ve ever had to fire my gun in the line of duty, unlike you. And right now I’m teaching myself to cook.”

“Teaching yourself to cook?” York asked with interest. “You mean, you can’t cook?”

“No, I can’t,” Emily said, trying to shrug it off. York thought she seemed a bit defensive. “I mostly go out to eat. I don’t normally have time. And my… mother didn’t teach me,” she finished.

“Maybe Thomas could give you lessons,” York suggested. “His cooking seems to be fantastic.”

“Yeah, it really is,” Emily agreed. “I only wish I could manage what he can do! He could make a living off it if he wanted, but I think he really likes working with the sheriff’s department. He might not be tough or anything like a lot of cops, but it makes him feel good to help people.”

“He seems like a gentle person,” York said and Emily agreed. “I did wonder how he ended up in the police.”

“Well,” Emily said. “In a small town like this, there are only so many career paths. There aren’t a lot of big offices or anything, which might be where he’d be most comfortable. I think George recommended him for the job. They’ve been friends for years. He mostly does paperwork anyway. He rarely goes out in the field.”

“George and Thomas were friends before he started working for the police?” York asked. That surprised him. George was easily in his early forties and Thomas was only just pushing thirty, if he was right. That they would be friends seemed unusual, but maybe that sort of thing was more common in the country. Besides, even back home he didn’t really have a wide enough net of friends to be sure how the dynamics worked. He had a few work friends, who he rarely saw outside of the office, but it was mostly just him. And Zach.

“I think so,” Emily said. “I met George just after I moved here, and they became friends not long after that, if I remember right. But we’ve all been working together for years now, so it’s hard to really remember when things happened.”

“I see,” York said. “And what drew you to the police?” He hoped that wouldn’t turn out to be too personal a question.

“I wanted to protect people,” Emily replied straight away. “I care a lot about, well… justice. I know we must seem silly to you, arresting shoplifters and drunk drivers, but it matters to me. I like knowing that I’m keeping my home safe. I want it to stay that way.”

“Emily if it makes you feel better, I think what we do is exactly the same,” York said.

“Oh York,” she said, obviously pleased, “it’s not exactly the same. You catch murderers and I basically pull cats out of trees.” York saw that she was grinning to herself. He felt a smile slip onto his face to match. A few moments later, they were facing two large metal gates and a winding driveway descending down a short hill.

“I take it this is the place,” York said, and Emily confirmed that they were just pulling up to Becky’s house. House, York thought as it came into view, wasn’t the right word. Quint’s girlfriend lived in a mansion.

“Remember,” Emily said as they walked up to the door. “Be considerate.”

“When am I not, Emily?” York joked, and she gave him a sly smirk. He knocked. They waited for a few moments, but there was no answer, not even the sound of movement inside. He rang the doorbell. Still nothing. “I wonder if she’s home,” he said.

“She’s home,” Emily said. “I expect she doesn’t want to see anyone. Keep knocking, she’ll realise we’re not just here to show our sympathy soon enough.”

York continued knocking and ringing the bell and, about five minutes in, they both heard footsteps. Eventually the door opened an inch and they were able to see a panel of light on the other side. The girl hiding her face behind most of the door had short, greasy brown hair and looked as if she hadn’t slept. She stared out at him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Are you Becky…” York tried to remember her last name. He knew George had said it. “Ames?”

“Yeah,” she said. “What do you want?” York withdrew his badge.

“I’m Agent Francis York Morgan. You can call me York. I’m investigating the murder of Quint Dunn. He was your boyfriend, wasn’t he?”

“Y-yeah,” Becky said shakily. “He was. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? Cause he’s dead.”

“It matters quite a lot, actually, Becky,” York said, trying to be gentle, as Emily had requested. “I need to know everything you can tell me about him.”

“What I can tell you?” Becky said sharply. “He’s dead! Someone killed him! Now leave me alone!” She slammed the door shut and they could both hear the sound of her walking away, disappearing back into her cavernous house. York was perturbed by this development. He knocked again a few times, but to no avail. Becky did not return.

“That didn’t go how I expected it to,” he said. Emily seemed as surprised as he was.

“Becky’s normally a sweet girl,” she said. “Quint’s death… must have really affected her. I can’t believe she acted like that.”

“We’ll need to speak with her, you realise,” York said. He hoped Emily’s desire not to ruffle too many feathers wouldn’t extend to protecting a crucial witness from questioning. Thankfully, it did not seem so.

“We can try her sister,” Emily said. “She might be able to convince Becky to talk to us.”

“Her sister?” York asked. He couldn’t remember anyone else called Ames from the town meeting. Unless they’d married, he supposed.

“Diane,” Emily explained. “I don’t know if she’s in town. She goes away a lot on business. She runs the art gallery down the road from here. I don’t really know her, but she’s Becky’s sister. She might be able to help us.”

“Then we’ll go by and talk with her after Richard Dunn,” York suggested. “But the grieving father may have to take priority over the bereaved girlfriend and her mysterious sister for now.”

“You have such a way with words,” Emily laughed. York grinned.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Swery 65, the bar owned by Richard where Quint had worked before he died, was fully wood-panelled on the outside, with that kind of rustic feel that made you think you’d gone back in time to the early 90s. York supposed that was probably when it had opened, and that the Dunns hadn’t changed a single thing about it since.

Behind the building were two trailers, one of which York presumed belonged to Richard, and one to Quint. The windows of one were firmly sealed with blinds and he decided that would be the one to avoid for the moment. He and Emily made their way over to the other trailer and knocked. A minute later, a man answered.

“Yeah?” he asked. He had brown hair that was just starting to grey pulled up into a ponytail and was dressed in casual cowboy clothing York found appropriate for the country. There was even a matching hat with a feather jutting from the brim sitting on a seat behind him. What had once been neat stubble and erupted into a messy half-beard on his face. He wasn’t looking after himself.

“Mr. Dunn?” York began. “I’m Agent Francis York Morgan with the FBI. Please just call me York, everyone does. I need to talk with you.” Richard looked from him to Emily and moved back from the door.

“Come in,” he said, sounding resigned. York glanced around, doing a quick inspection of the interior of the trailer. From what he could tell, the once nicely decorated trailer had descended into chaos the moment Richard heard of his son’s death. There were empty bottles lying around and dirty clothes scattered over chairs and onto the floor. York did notice, interestingly, a woman’s jacket among them. So at least he hadn’t been grieving alone.

“Richard, we can’t imagine how hard this is for you…” Emily said sadly. Richard sat down on the sofa and didn’t bother to ask them to join him.

“I know, Emily. But please save the niceties. It only makes it harder, hearing that shit from everyone who comes by.” Emily acted surprised by his comment, so York decided he was out of character.

“Richard,” York cut in. He sensed that the man didn’t want them to tread on eggshells, so he would avoid it. “It would be useful if we could form a timeline of the night Quint died. Do you know what happened that night? Where he was?”

“Well, we were both at the bar working for a while,” Richard said. “But I closed up a little earlier than normal. I was having dinner with a friend. Quint said something about meeting Becky, that’s his girlfriend. She was… his girlfriend. So at first I figured he was out with her most of the night. But then later on, she called me. She said she hadn’t seen him all night. That’s when I called the sheriff.”

“Isn’t that rash?” York asked. “Quint was basically an adult, surely he would be out late sometimes without telling you?”

“Yeah,” Richard agreed. “But Becky, she sounded upset. Real upset. She’s a pretty calm kid most of the time, level-headed, so it worried me. I checked to see if Quint was home and he wasn’t. His bike was gone. Now, I don’t like to think of myself as a worrier, but with Becky’s voice chattering in my ear I guess I caught some of her panic. I thought he might have started to drive over there and crashed his bike off the road in the dark.”

“That makes sense,” York admitted. “Emily, have we found the motorcycle?”

“It hasn’t turned up,” Emily confessed. “We’ve been looking.” York frowned. Without that, there was no way of telling whether Quint drove to the mill himself, or was interrupted along the way. It was strange for it to have disappeared.

“What time did you call the police?” he asked. Richard thought for a moment.

“I guess it was about… 1am,” he said. “It was just after Becky called, and her ringing up at that hour was part of what got me worrying.” He shook his head sadly. “Smart girl, I guess. Never normally rushes to panic like that. Guess she knew something was really wrong.”

“Maybe,” Emily said gently. She turned to York. “Jim found the body about 7am. He starts his days early, so he joined George, Thomas, and me in a search party after Richard called. He looks after the forest around here, so whenever anyone goes missing George calls him in. Usually we find them without any problem, though… Old ‘roaming’ Sigourney probably accounts for sixty percent of our searches.” She tried to smile slightly, but considering they were still talking about the one missing person who hadn’t turned out okay, it didn’t happen.

“So it seems that we need to establish who Quint was meeting that night,” York said. “If he said he was meeting Becky, it may have been a cover for something else.”

“Quint was a good kid, Agent,” Richard said gruffly. “He may not have been the absolute smartest kid in the world, but he had a good heart. He didn’t get himself into trouble.”

“I understand, Richard,” York acknowledged. Although he knew parents rarely knew anything about their children’s personal lives. “And maybe he did intend to meet Becky. He could have been ambushed or tricked by his killer. Finding his motorcycle would help us determine that.”

“We’ll keep looking,” Emily added. York thought that if it hadn’t turned up by now, it was probably deliberate. It seemed likely the killer had got rid of it to cover up what had happened that night.

“Thank you for your help,” York said suddenly, getting ready to leave. “We won’t bother you further. And you’ll be the first to hear when we catch the person who did this.”

“I better had be,” Richard said stiffly, and York made for the door while Emily offered a quick goodbye and another condolence. She joined York outside and they walked to the car. He went to the driver’s side out of habit and she had to remind him that they were using her car today.

“I don’t suppose I could change your mind, Emily...?” he asked. She smirked at him.

“You hate sitting shotgun that much?” she laughed. “You managed on the way over here.”

“I did,” York confessed. “And I think we can all manage to do things we don’t like sometimes, but there’s no reason to make yourself keep doing them when there’s an alternative.” Emily stared at him for a moment with mild disbelief. He really didn’t mince words. Ever.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll drive us to the sheriff’s department and we can get a cruiser. Then you can drive us over to the art gallery to see Diane, if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Thank you, Emily, it will,” York said, smiling. He was quite simple to please, Emily thought. He had that kind of innocence. She should carry around a pocketful of lollipops to bribe him with in future. She got up into the driver’s seat and wondered, not for the first time, why someone like that had chosen to work for the FBI.

♦ ♦ ♦

After switching cars and drivers at the sheriff’s department, York and Emily had enjoyed a quiet ride over to the art gallery, broken up occasionally by York’s comments on the scenery. He seemed impressed by the range of trees they had in Greenvale. Huge, tall things, unlike anything you would see in a city. They fascinated him. It made Emily stop and appreciate her adopted hometown. She could remember a time when she had first moved to Greenvale, and had had a similar reaction to all the greenery. It made her feel nostalgic.

When they finally reached the art gallery, York saw that it was a huge converted manor buried in the middle of the woods. It had to be one of the most isolated buildings in town. The Ames must have a lot of money, to afford both this and the mansion where Becky lived, he thought.

“Why are we coming here to find Diane?” York asked as the two of them walked towards the door. “Surely she’s at home, comforting her sister?”

“Oh no,” Emily corrected him. “They don’t live together. Diane’s quite a lot older. She has rooms here in the art gallery where she works and lives. Becky lives in that house alone.”

“Alone?” York asked incredulously. “Her parents –”

“Are dead,” Emily finished. “A few years ago. In a car accident. Diane was already an adult, and she was meant to step in and take care of Becky after it happened. I mean, she did. It’s just that she started spending more and more time at her gallery, and as soon as Becky turned eighteen, she moved out for good. As far as I know, they barely even speak.” She sighed. “It’s sad that something that should have brought them together only ended up pushing them further apart.”

“Tragedy affects everyone in different ways,” York said. “Do you know Diane well?”

“No, I barely know her at all,” Emily admitted. “This is mostly town gossip. I was aware of the accident when it happened, but everything else is just the sort of thing you hear from everyone.” She hesitated, doubting what she was about to say, then carried on. “I think Becky blamed Diane for what happened. She was her big sister, and she was meant to protect her, but she couldn’t stop their parents from dying. It isn’t fair, sure, but Becky was young. Maybe Diane didn’t handle it well and it made her angry. Diane’s always struck me as, well… cold.”

“Interesting,” York said. “And you seem like a good judge of character. Let’s go and meet the ice queen for ourselves.” He knocked on the door and heard the sound echo around inside the huge, empty building. There was no reply. He tried a couple more times, but Emily didn’t seem surprised.

“She does go away a lot for business,” she reminded him. “She might not be here.”

“I hope you’re wrong, Emily,” York said with a frown. “I want to meet this woman. She’s piqued my interest.” Emily let out a tired sigh.

“She certainly does do that…” she said snottily, and York sensed a story behind the words. As he was gearing up to knock again, they heard the sound of a car on the road nearby. Turning, they were able to watch as a pickup truck pulled up a few moments later. York noted with amusement that there was a doghouse strapped into the truck bed, with an old Dalmatian sleeping in it. When the truck ground to a halt, a man hopped out and came round to the passenger door. He was large and round, with a friendly face and sunburn on his neck and arms. He was wearing a pair of glasses and overalls. The right kind of person to be driving a pickup truck. He opened the door and his passenger carefully clambered out. She, York decided, was not who you’d expect to see in a pickup truck.

The woman had long, slender legs dressed in patterned stockings and a pair of dark high heels, which only made it more intimidating when she stood at an easy six foot. She had natural red hair which framed her face dramatically, deliberately. She was all sharp angles and a haze of perfume. York immediately understood the context of Emily’s snide comment. Diane Ames was the kind of woman you didn’t want to get involved with, but you still regretted avoiding for the rest of your life. There was just something dark about her, something he hadn’t expected to find in a small town like this.

As she approached, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Well, well,” Diane said as she reached them. Her voice was dreamy and detached. You couldn’t call it arrogant, because she made it clear with every word that you didn’t matter enough to earn her contempt. Let alone anything else. “The police are here. Have you been waiting for me?”

“Diane Ames?” York asked. “I’m FBI Agent Francis York Morgan. You should call me York. We have a few things to talk about.” Diane shot a look over her shoulder at the man with the truck, signalling for him to leave. Then she turned back to York and smiled darkly at him.

“Very well,” she said. “Let me invite you in.”


	9. Conflict

Chapter Nine. [ Conflict ]

They sat in the small living room at the back of the gallery, in armchairs set around a coffee table. It was very dignified, like taking tea in an English country house. A clock ticked softly in the background. Diane folded and unfolded her legs and waited for their questions to begin.

“Are you aware of the death of Quint Dunn?” York asked.

“Yes,” she said, in that dreamy voice again. “I heard that he’d been found.”

“Where have you been today?” he asked, interested in her phrasing. “Were you in town the night he was killed?”

“I suppose I must have been,” she answered. “I was with a friend today. They’ve just come back to town themselves.”

“I saw,” York said, remembering the man with the pickup. If he needed to, he’d ask him about Diane. He got the feeling he wouldn’t learn much from the woman herself. “And are you aware that the victim was dating your younger sister, Becky?”

“That’s what I heard,” Diane said, smiling to herself. Why that would be amusing, York couldn’t understand. He pressed on.

“We spoke to Becky,” he said. “Or tried to. She’s not feeling well. She seems angry and upset. She could probably use her big sister around.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Diane said.

“Diane…” Emily tried, “perhaps you could help us out. If you can get Becky to open up and talk to us, it would be really useful to the investigation. She might know more about where Quint was that night, or if he’d had problems with anyone lately. We need her to talk to us.”

“Aren’t you the police?” Diane asked. “Can’t you make her talk to you?”

“We don’t want it to come to that,” Emily stressed. York could see why the two of them would not get along. Emily was a very straightforward, honest person. Diane was not. She was like a cloud of cigarette smoke. Immaterial.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Diane said in her detached, amused way. “Becky and I may be sisters, but we’re not close. We never have been.”

“Did you raise your sister, after your parents’ deaths?” York said suddenly, and Emily, who had been getting ready to answer, stared at him in shock. It was a very personal thing to bring up out of the blue. Diane did not seem at all bothered by his choice of topic.

“I wonder how you know about that,” Diane said. She almost sounded impressed. “I did, for a time, but Becky is old enough to look after herself now. Especially with all of our father’s money to keep her warm at night.”

“Did you not like your parents, Diane?” York pressed forward. Emily sat awkwardly. She had known Diane for years and never said anything more than a brief greeting here and there to the woman, and here was York, a stranger, casually digging into her personal life in the middle of the day. There was nowhere to look.

“I liked them just fine,” Diane said, smiling a little wider, with a little more teeth. “I just didn’t feel the need to defend our dear father from accusations of reality after his death, as Becky would have liked.”

“We’ll leave that there,” Emily said quickly, before York could continue. What Becky’s dead father could possibly have to do with the investigation she didn’t know, although she had an idea York was trying to rattle the entirely unshakable Diane in the only way he could think of.

“Talk to your sister,” York said, getting up from his chair. “See if she’ll come in and talk to us, or if she’d be willing to let us come over and ask questions. She’s not in trouble. But we need to know what she knows.” He turned towards the exit. “And Diane…?” he added as a deliberate afterthought. “If we have any more questions, you will stay in town, won’t you?”

“Certainly, Agent York,” she said. Emily got up and followed him out. When they were back outside and away from the eerie, empty atmosphere of the art gallery, she had a few words to share with him.

“York, that was unprofessional,” Emily said. “Bringing up their family history like that. What purpose could that possibly serve?!”

“I wanted to know why the two sisters no longer see eye to eye,” York explained. “I take it Mr. Ames was not the most likable man in the world?”

“I barely knew him,” Emily said, stress obvious in her voice.

“But…?” York asked. There was something there, something she didn’t want to say. Never speak ill of the dead, indeed.

“There were… rumours,” Emily said. “That he wasn’t the kindest man. To his wife.”

“Emily, I understand what you’re getting at,” York said. He chose not to make her spell it out to him. In a small, tightknit community like this, he could imagine that spousal abuse might be ignored in favour of preserving the status quo. If there was never any hard evidence, there would never be anything the police could do about it. If Becky was only in her early teens when he had died, she might have a different picture of her father than, say, Diane, who was old enough to appreciate the truth. He could see why the two of them might have fallen out.

“Yeah…” Emily said uncomfortably. “What are we doing next?”

“I don’t know about you, Emily, but I’m hungry,” York said, switching tone again, cheerful as if they hadn’t just been discussing the gory details of a dead couple’s marriage. “I’d be interested in visiting that diner I’ve heard so much about.”

“You mean the A&G diner?” Emily asked. “All right. I suppose I could eat.”

“Perfect,” York said grinning. “Lunch will be on the FBI.” With that comment, Emily was suddenly looking cheerful too.

♦ ♦ ♦

The diner was a fairly small, square building in the centre of town. There was an ugly statue of their mascot outside which York felt was a poor choice. It was a very generic slice of Americana. He hoped the food would be better. When they went in, he could believe they’d stepped back into the fifties, in a good way. The design was cutesy, but it worked. As he headed towards a stool at the counter with Emily at his tail, they were approached by a waitress with a pad in hand.

“Hello, what can I get for you?” she asked. York recognised her from the town meeting as Becky’s friend, Anna. She certainly managed to pull off the sunny attitude required of the service industry. He took his seat and reached for a menu.

“Hello again, Anna,” he said.

“You remember me!” she laughed. “I thought the FBI agent would be too busy for that!” York decided she was one of those bubbly, popular teenage girls who people tend to like for their attitude, if not their depth of personality.

“Oh no, I remember everyone, it’s part of my job,” York said with a smile. He glanced over the menu. “Anna, I’ll have whatever you recommend,” he said. She thought for a moment, her eyes rolling up in her head with effort.

“Turkey sandwiches are good,” she said. “Olivia always tells me to recommend them to people.”

“Then I’ll have one of those,” York said. “Emily?”

“If the FBI’s really paying, I’ll have a steak,” she said from beside him, grinning slightly. “The steak here is good, but it’s too expensive for me normally. Is that going to be all right?”

“Of course, Emily. I promised.” York was amused. Emily was perfectly capable of taking advantage when she wanted to, then.

“Great!” Anna said. “I’ll go and…” She trailed off as her gaze fell on the kitchen window behind them where Olivia and Nick Cormack stood, whispering angrily to one another. Nick was making enough agitated hand gestures to remove any doubt about the fact that they were having an argument.

“Whenever they’re ready to take our order will be fine, Anna, we’re not in a hurry,” York said in an attempt to quickly smooth over the awkwardness. She seemed to appreciate it, and hurried off. York turned back to Emily. “A steak, eh?” he asked, smirking.

“Hey, I can appreciate a good steak,” Emily said. “I think I burned plenty of calories this morning holding my tongue while you made some great first impressions.”

“I think Diane really liked me,” York joked.

“Invite me to the wedding,” Emily teased back. “I’d love to see someone finally tie her down.”

“Oh! Uh…” They both looked up in horror to see Olivia standing next to them. She had a slight blush, and Emily buried her face in her palm, assuming that Olivia, sweet and gentle as she was, had misunderstood the nature of their conversation.

“Hello Olivia,” York said, ignoring the discomfort entirely. “Did Anna give you our order?”

“She did,” Olivia said, clearly relieved that they were moving on without acknowledging her awkward timing. “I wanted to come and say hello, though, because you’re a new customer. So… welcome to our diner!” She smiled. It wasn’t exactly a warm expression, but it was trying to be.

“It seems very cosy,” York said. “Exactly what you’d expect to find in a small country town.”

“Thank you, I think,” Olivia said. She was definitely a nervous kind of person. Although he might be rattled too if he’d just been arguing in front of his customers. “My husband, Nick… he’s a great cook. He holds the business together.”

“I can’t wait to see for myself,” York said politely. Olivia smiled again and vanished off into the kitchen. He hoped Nick could still prepare a good sandwich in his current bad mood. He wondered what they had been fighting about.

“So York…” Emily said, drawing him back to the moment. “I want you to know, even though I live here, and I care about the people here, I’m still going to be objective in this investigation. I want you to tell me as soon as you know who did this. No matter who it is. Even if you just have a bad feeling about someone, all right?”

“I understand, Emily,” York agreed. “And I will tell you all my bad feelings.” He grinned to himself. “Every terrible possibility. Every anxious inclination.”

“Every deadly premonition,” Emily laughed. The two of them shared a brief smile. Shortly afterwards, Olivia came back with two plates. A turkey sandwich on one, a well-cooked steak on the other. They thanked her and Emily immediately reached for the ketchup, squirting it all over her lunch. York watched with mild disgust as she carved it up and began to eat.

“Ketchup,” he said. “On a steak.”

“It’s not the grossest thing in the world!” she protested. “It tastes better this way!” He didn’t argue. If she truly felt that way, there was nothing he could say to change her mind. He had just raised his own sandwich to his lips when the door to the diner opened. He turned to once more see the strange Harry Stewart and his aide. They moved silently through the diner and paused near the ordering window. York frowned in their direction.

“You know, Emily,” he said, “I’ve worked in a lot of different places, on a lot of different cases, and I’ve never met anyone like those two.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Emily agreed reluctantly. “But I think Harry’s just become eccentric in his old age. I wouldn’t trust him, but I don’t know that there’s anything sinister going on with him.”

“Maybe I’ll pay the eccentric rich boy a visit some time,” York muttered to himself. Emily rolled her eyes. She hoped York wasn’t getting caught up in appearances. If they were going to arrest all the strange old people in town, she’d have to prepare a cell for the scatter-brained Sigourney and her cooking pot. And probably one for General Lysander as well, with all his old war stories. She remembered one occasion when, as a teenager wandering through the junkyard, Lysander had cornered her and warned her that the most effective attacks were boosted by the element of surprise. She had screamed loudly enough for him to drop his point and apologise, but it had still become a lasting memory. Now that she thought about it, Jim Green and his particular interest in isolating himself and his grandsons from the world outside Greenvale’s forests might have to take up residence under the police station too. It was going to be a full house.

York had stopped paying attention to Emily, and was watching Harry. The man sat almost stationary in his chair, staring straight ahead. His eyes were barely visible beneath the gas mask, York knew from experience. The young man with him adopted a similar pose, standing straight-backed with his hands behind his back, staring ahead. A moment later the waitress, Anna, approached them and handed over a brown paper bag with their order in. He noticed that even as he took the bag from her, neither Michael nor Harry showed any of the usual social niceties. It was a brief exchange. Although, he also noticed, they didn’t pay, so they must have a tab. The two left as soon as they had their food without a word or a glance, and York got up from his chair to go and ask after them. He came up to Anna who looked at him nervously.

“Is there a problem with your food?” she asked. “I know sometimes there’s a hair or something, but Olivia’s really nice not to make me tie it up, so can you not say anything to her if it’s that?” York was amused by the focus of her panic. She did have very long hair, and he knew how teenage girls felt about that kind of thing.

“No, Anna, there’s no problem with the food,” he said. “I wanted to ask you about the two who just left. What did they order?”

“Oh they always get the same thing,” Anna said, smiling widely now that her hairstyle was in the clear. “It’s this weird special thing Nick offered once as a joke. Like an April fool? Anyway they must love it, they have it every day.”

“What is it?” York asked.

“It’s a sandwich. A turkey sandwich,” she explained. “But with strawberry jam and cereal pieces in it. It’s super gross. I dunno which of them eats it. Like I said, it was meant to be a joke sandwich?” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Interesting…” York said. As a man with a fondness for food, he felt you could tell a lot about a person based on what they chose to eat. For example, Emily’s taste for steak meant she was a down-to-earth person with a boyish attitude, and her habit of putting ketchup on it meant she had burnt all her taste buds off. Thomas’ habit of making baked goods indicated he was as sweet as his lunches. And if Harry Stewart ordered a prank sandwich every day, there was probably a good reason for that too. He really might have to pay the man a visit.

He thanked Anna and returned to his seat. Emily had already finished her food and was looking over the dessert menu with anticipation. He sat back down and started on his sandwich at last. True to Olivia’s word, it was fantastic.

“You can order something else if you’d like, Emily,” he said. She didn’t need convincing. Emily waited for Olivia to notice her and ordered a slice of apple pie to finish off her meal. York asked for a cup of coffee.

“Does the FBI not mind that you’re spending their money on pies and steaks?” she asked. York shook his head.

“I have a good expense account,” he explained. “As long as they’re happy with my work, I can spend what I want on comforts. And I close cases quickly.”

“I bet,” Emily said dryly. She was getting used to his slight arrogance, realising it was less about bragging and more about telling the truth. If he said the FBI were happy to keep his coffee mug filled because he brought in plenty of criminals, she believed him. “So where are we heading tomorrow? You’ve interrogated the victim’s father, failed to get the victim’s girlfriend to open up to you, and made best friends with Diane. What else could possibly top that?”

“Actually, Emily, tomorrow I want to explore Greenvale on my own,” York said. “I find that just spending some time alone helps me think. Who knows. The killer’s identity may start to become clear in my mind already.”

“That might be hoping for too much,” Emily suggested. “But if that’s what you want. George will be relieved. He really doesn’t like working under anyone, after so many years as sheriff.”

“Ah yes, the sheriff,” York said. “George seems to take that title to heart. He’s built his whole identity around it.”

“Hey, don’t be too harsh on him,” Emily said with a small frown. “George is my friend. He may be abrasive, but he has a good heart. He cares about the people he’s sworn to protect.” York didn’t push the matter. He had no urge to get on Emily’s bad side, and despite George’s unpleasant reception to him, he really had no idea what the man was like as a person. There was a good chance Emily was right, and he was perfectly well-meaning when he didn’t feel threatened.

The two of them finished their lunch in relative peace. York was sure to compliment Olivia on the coffee she brought him, and she seemed flattered. When they were done, they parted ways for the day. Emily said she would walk back to the nearby sheriff’s department to do paperwork and organise information from any calls that had come in while they were out. York was beginning to see her as the real backbone of the police force in Greenvale. George may have the badge and the bravado, but he clearly lacked the people skills Emily had mastered for her job. Thomas, pleasant and hard-working as he was, just didn’t seem cut out for police work in the long run. No, Emily was going to be the person he trusted in this investigation. He was sure of it.

York climbed into his car and started off towards the hotel. He had a little organisation to do himself. He wanted to make some notes on the people they’d met today, adding them to the ones he’d made after the town meeting. It may take a while yet, but he was going to find the odd one out, the person who didn’t sit right. And he was going to catch them.


	10. Free Day in Greenvale

Chapter Ten. [ Free Day in Greenvale ]

York set out in the police cruiser without a goal in mind. He had meant what he’d said to Emily. Sometimes spending some time mulling over facts, picturing the order of events, and fleshing out the cast of suspects in his head was all it took for a new idea to come to him. That, and he deserved at least one day of vacation.

His drive took him through town and into the outskirts. He made a brief stop at the junkyard when he saw it go past, but was told in no uncertain terms that repairing his car was going to be a long job. The general needed to order some spare parts from elsewhere to fix the unusual model. When York asked if he had done so, he was met with raucous laughter. He decided it wasn’t worth fighting about, the cruiser was good enough for now. And if he was going to be driving into the hills, he didn’t particularly want to speckle his car with mud anyway.

As he drove on, he saw what looked like a graveyard in the distance. He decided it was worth a stop. As he got out of the car and strolled through the neatly tended gravestones, he wondered when Quint’s funeral would be. It would probably have to wait until they’d caught the killer. He thought about the body, sitting alone in the cold morgue, and sighed.

“Not exactly a nice fate for someone, is it Zach?” he mused. On second thought, even if they released the body, his father hadn’t seemed ready to handle the arrangements. He hoped Richard had someone to rely on in this difficult time.

Up ahead, York saw movement, and froze. It was the middle of the day, surely there wouldn’t be anything like he’d seen the night he arrived, or again in the mill. They left him alone in the day. That was the rule. He subtly tapped the space on his jacket over his gun and was reassured to feel it there, waiting. Just in case.

He carefully, slowly approached the figure he’d seen. There was a small wooden shack in the centre of the graveyard, and they had been behind that. Darting just barely out of sight. If it was a person, there would be more indication. Footsteps. Laughter. Even the sound of breathing. There was nothing. York edged up towards the wall of the shack and then flipped around the corner in one quick movement. Standing on the other side was a man. He faced away from York.

“Hello?” York called out, eager to take out his gun, but knowing that if he pulled it on an innocent person he’d never hear the end of it. “Who’s there?”

The man turned. He was wearing a brimmed hat and old-fashioned clothes. He had dark hair and eyes, which only made his skin seem paler. It seemed almost grey in the sunlight and York was taken aback. This man looked more like one of the permanent residents of the cemetery than anything else.

“I’m sorry,” York said quickly. “I didn’t realise anyone else was here. It’s not exactly a social spot.”

“I… yes,” the man said. His voice had an unusual raspy quality that made York want to offer him a glass of water. “I am… I also didn’t know… t-that anyone was around.”

“We haven’t met, but I’m FBI agent Francis York Morgan. You can call me York. And you are…?” York found it suspicious that this stranger hadn’t come to the town meeting. Of course it did look as if when he stepped into direct sunlight he might burn up on the spot.

“Brian. My name is… i-it’s Brian.” That seemed to be the end of his introduction.

“Brian,” York said. “All right. What brings you to the graveyard on a nice day like this?” Hopefully the answer wasn’t that he was grieving, or York might feel that he’d stepped in it.

“I am… I spend every day here,” Brian answered, resting a hand against the wooden wall of the shack. It dawned on York that he was speaking with the grave keeper. No wonder his behaviour and appearance seemed odd. He wasn’t used to dealing with living guests.

“Brian, are you aware of the recent death of a Quint Dunn?” York asked.

“The boy… yes,” Brian said. His voice stopped and started like a broken car engine. “He is gone now… y-yes. S-such a shame.”

“I agree, it is a shame,” York said measuredly. He felt uneasy talking to this man. There was a growing feeling that something was very wrong. “Did you know him?”

“Know… him?” Brian asked. “N-no. I don’t… know anyone.” York narrowed his eyes slightly. He couldn’t imagine anyone being completely socially isolated. Especially not if, as he admitted, this strange man knew the local news of Quint’s death.

“Brian, I want to ask you som–”

“There are… two of you,” Brian cut over him. York felt his whole body grow tense.

“What do you mean?” he asked roughly. He had no patience for games, not this kind.

“Two. T-two of you,” Brian repeated. “York… and Zach.”

“How do you know the name Zach?” York asked. Brian did not seem in any hurry to answer, as if this was just a regular conversation. Well it wasn’t. No-one should know about Zach but him. “Answer me, now,” York demanded in a voice that threatened to turn into a shout.

“I… understand. How you are.” Brian’s face curled into a smile that made York flinch. “You dream… in red.” That was the final straw. York reached into his holster and took out his gun, pointing it towards Brian’s shoulder.

“Who have you been talking to?” York demanded.

“N-no-one. I can see… who you are.” The two of them stared each other down for a moment and then, in a flash of a second, Brian darted around the far corner of the shack and was gone. York leapt after him, but when he turned the corner there was no-one there. He’d disappeared.

“He wasn’t real,” York told himself aloud. He put the gun back, cursing himself for getting so rattled. That couldn’t happen. If there were people around next time, he’d be answering a lot of questions. “He wasn’t real, was he Zach?” he asked again.

No-one answered.

♦ ♦ ♦

York had been turned off the idea of driving around Greenvale’s more isolated, scenic spots. As soon as his encounter in the graveyard was over, he’d rushed back to the car and pointed it straight at the populated parts of town. He was currently standing in the Milk Barn parking lot, looking up at the sign with amusement. It was a fun name for a store, and he hadn’t yet had a chance to check it out. This would be a much better use of his day than wandering around the cemetery. He opened the door and went inside.

“Hey! FBI!” he heard someone call out. He knew before he turned to look that it was Keith Ingram. He was sitting behind the counter and waved at York when he caught his attention.

“Hello Keith,” York said, coming over. He was glad to be having a conversation with someone more tangible. Even if he suspected it would not be the most intellectually stimulating of his life.

“Yo, FBI,” Keith said, smiling idly. He was like a human screensaver, York thought. One of those elaborate, colourful ones from the nineties. Funny. “Any luck catching your killer yet?”

“Not yet, Keith,” York said. “But I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Well hey, if you need someone to give you a down-low on the folks round here, I’m your guy. I know a lot of the real truths of Greenvale, all right?” He snapped his fingers and York wasn’t sure if it was to emphasise his point or to the tune in his head.

“Agent York!” York realised Lilly was standing behind him, having approached when he was distracted by her husband. Who was, admittedly, very distracting. “Can we help you with anything today?” she asked. She had a very sunny smile, York noticed. It really made you feel good about yourself. No doubt it helped part people with slightly more money than they first intended.

“I just came in to browse, Lilly,” he said, returning her smile. She giggled.

“Well, if you need anything, we’ll both be here,” she told him. “I’d be more than happy to help our dashing guest find what he needs. I suppose that’s like helping the police, in a way, isn’t it? If I make your life easier, you can focus better on solving the case!”

“Actually Lilly, there is one thing,” York said. “You told me that Becky Ames works here some days? Is that right?” She nodded, but her smile faded at the mention of Becky’s name.

“She does, poor girl,” Lilly said sadly. “She hasn’t come in since Quint died. I don’t blame her, and we won’t pressure her to hurry back.”

“Yeah, poor Becky,” Keith added. “That really sucks, losing your guy like that. Man, if I lost my Lilly I don’t know what I’d do.” Lilly smiled and laughed gently, clearly flattered by the comment. York was unsure if she should be, as it had regarded the possibility of her being murdered by a serial killer, but he didn’t pretend to understand marriage.

“Becky doesn’t seem willing to talk to us,” York pressed on. “I was hoping you might have some insight on getting her to open up to me.”

“Oh! Hmm.” Lilly took a moment to think over the question, but her regretful smile didn’t reassure him. “I don’t know, hon. I think she just needs some time. Becky was always sensitive.”

“I suppose even someone who wasn’t particularly sensitive might struggle to come to terms with this kind of loss,” York said. Lilly didn’t notice his sarcasm.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “It’s a tough adjustment for all of us. Quint was a nice boy.”

“Yeah, he was rock ‘n’ roll,” Keith said. “His dad’s a good guy, too. This is way unfair on him.”

“It is,” York agreed. “Well, thank you for your help. I’ll be sure to come back anytime I need something.” Lilly and Keith waved him off and he went back to the car, no more enlightened than before. Quint seemed to evoke the same kind of bland, positive opinion in everyone who knew him. He was a nice boy, a good kid. No-one had any strong feelings about him. Other than Becky, he supposed, whose feelings remained her secret for the time being. It was hard to imagine why someone would kill him. This crime, with the violent stabbing, the deliberate, malevolent way Quint had been dragged off to the mill… it was passionate. Passionate in a way that no-one seemed to be about the victim himself. York shook his head. There was something he wasn’t seeing, he just had to keep working at it.

♦ ♦ ♦

York noticed Thomas outside of the sheriff’s department and stopped the car to call out to him. Thomas scampered over at once. He reminded York of the squirrels he so enjoyed. Small, agile, nervous. It was a good fit. He doubted Thomas was oblivious to the comparison.

“Agent York,” Thomas said in surprise. “Emily said you weren’t coming in today.”

“I’m not, Thomas,” York said. “Where are you off to?”

“Oh.” Thomas produced a paper folder for York to see. “I was just taking some paperwork over to the hospital. It’s about the… uh… the autopsy. Just some legal things. I need the doctor’s signature.”

“Do you want to carpool?” York asked. He could tell Thomas wasn’t comfortable. Any discussion of the body, the murder, seemed to set him off. Maybe he could distract the poor man from his errand.

“Oh, Agent York, that’s… very thoughtful. I have my own car.” Thomas gestured vaguely towards the parking lot behind the station. York leant over and opened the passenger door.

“Nonsense, I’m already here,” he insisted. “It’ll be a good chance to get to know each other. I’ll drive you back afterwards.” Thomas went a little pink and couldn’t stop a wide smile from breaking onto his face. He went straight for the passenger seat.

“If you insist, York,” he said. York noticed the drop of the word ‘agent’. They were making friends already. When Thomas had buckled his seatbelt, York started up the car. He remembered the way to the hospital without the use of the map, so was able to focus on conversation while he drove.

“So then Thomas,” York began. “Other than your work for the sheriff, what do you like to do?”

“Um, well…” Thomas had a nervous quality to his voice that reminded York of a childhood first date. Not a particular one. He hadn’t been on anywhere near enough for that comparison to hold weight, but the kind you might see on a TV show. A sitcom. If this was turning into a date, York had to confess, he hadn’t brought any flowers.

“You have hobbies?” he asked, trying to push the conversation past Thomas’ awkwardness.

“I… I spend most of my time working,” Thomas confessed. “For the sheriff, and at night I help out at my sister’s bar. I mostly work behind the bar and make drinks. But when I do have time, I like to bake.” He smiled to himself. “I’m slowly teaching myself more elaborate things, you understand.”

“What’s the most dramatic thing you’ve made then, Thomas?” York asked with a grin. Thomas burst into a peal of nervous laughter.

“Well,” he said. “I did… just for fun you know… I made a wedding cake. It was just for fun! I built all the tiers and iced it, just to see if I could.” York was surprised he felt the need to justify it to himself so much. If he could make a wedding cake, he’d do it every weekend and eat it on the way to work. Thomas must have more self-control.

“What happened to it?” York asked. Thomas fiddled with his glasses. His cheeks were distinctly pink.

“Carol, that is my sister. She and I ate it together. She said she didn’t like the lemon icing I chose that much, though…” He drifted off into thought and York clicked his tongue in disbelief. What a strange criticism to make when presented with such an opportunity. Perhaps he was just imagining himself in the situation though. York was well known to eat basically anything, and turning his nose up at a cake because of the icing was something that just didn’t compute to him.

He ended up daydreaming himself, thinking about a deep-fried cherry pie he ate once at an ‘extreme’ restaurant during a case last year. Everyone else had labelled it disgusting, but he’d enjoyed the blending of textures. One of his colleagues had told him he ‘found the good in anything’, even when there wasn’t one. That might be true. Before he knew it, they were at the hospital.

“So I’ll take this… downstairs,” Thomas said, once again struggling to confront the reality that he was working a murder case. “I’ll meet you up here again in a moment?”

“Take your time, Thomas,” York said. Thomas smiled at him and hurried off to find the stairs to the morgue. York strolled over to the reception desk where Fiona was sitting with a large book in her lap.

“Agent York!” she said excitedly when she saw him. “Still working hard?”

“That’s right, Fiona,” he said. “And what are you working on?”

“Me?” she asked. She raised the book slightly so York could make out the title. It was a medical textbook, a thick one at that. Not light reading by any stretch. “I’m just studying. I might want to be a doctor one day.”

“Ah, that’s good. A very selfless aspiration. Any particular reason?” He remembered how she had acted around Ushah at the town meeting. It seemed obvious to him that she longed to go from underling to co-worker with her crush.

“The doctor inspired me…” Fiona laughed. Her cheeks blushed like Thomas’ had, but she seemed less awkward about it. She embraced the feeling. “I just think his work is so impressive! He’s a researcher now, and he’s going to cure so many diseases, I just know it! I want to do that. It would be great to really help people, even people I’ve never met.”

“And you don’t think there’s an easier way to get his attention?” York teased, looking at the huge textbook. Fiona laughed and closed it in her lap.

“Fine, that might be part of it,” she admitted happily. “I was only seventeen when Ushah moved here, and I worked here at the hospital just answering the phones. I don’t think it’s surprising I developed a bit of a crush on the handsome doctor from L.A.”

“No, it’s not,” York agreed. “Have you tried telling Ushah that?”

“No way!” Fiona gasped. “Ushah doesn’t seem like, I mean, he’s never looked at me like that. It’s fine, I think sometime, maybe… but I can wait.” She tapped the book with her finger. “I have plenty to keep me occupied in the meantime.”

“That’s a good attitude, Fiona,” York said, and smiled. Maybe he’d take her advice if he ever had similar feelings for someone.

“Anyway, he hasn’t seen anyone else as far as I know,” Fiona said. “The nurses here gossip like crazy, and I’ve never heard anything at all about Ushah having a girlfriend.” She was happy to take her time as long as she was still in the race, York thought. A practical girl.

“That’s great, Fiona,” he said. “I hope things work out between the two of you.” As he said it, Thomas returned.

“I’m so sorry I took so long!” he said frantically. York put a hand on his shoulder for a quick moment in the hopes of calming him down.

“It’s quite all right, Thomas. Fiona and I were having a nice talk. You don’t have to worry.” Thomas glanced between the two of them and seemed to relax as York’s words sank in.

“Oh good!” he breathed. “I’ll be ready to go now though, if you want to.” Before York could agree, Ushah appeared, hurrying up behind Thomas with something in his hand.

“Thomas,” he said. “You dropped your keys.” He handed the keyring over to Thomas, who let out a tiny gasp and quickly stuffed it into his pocket. He was embarrassed, York thought. He should really learn to embrace his mistakes, there was no need for him to feel so guilty every time.

“Hello again Ushah, how’s medicine?” York asked. Ushah stared at him for a second before grinning.

“The same as ever, York,” he said. “How’s justice?”

“A fickle mistress,” York said and they shared a quick laugh. Thomas shifted from one foot to another beside them, uncomfortable.

“Er…” Ushah began, noticing Thomas’ discomfort. “If you two are in a hurry, don’t let me stop you.”

“We’ll leave now,” York said. “Thomas, let’s go.” Thomas was thankful to be leaving. He really didn’t like the hospital, York thought. Maybe he’d been injured when he was younger and had to spend time there, or maybe it really was all about Quint’s body sitting down there in the morgue. Either way, he wouldn’t force him to stay outside his comfort zone for longer than necessary.

As they were driving back to the station, Thomas turned to York with a smile.

“Thanks for giving me a ride,” he said. “You know… if you wanted to, you could come by the Galaxy of Terror later. I’ll make you a free drink. As thanks, you know.”

“That might be nice, Thomas,” York agreed. He hadn’t been yet, and with Richard incapacitated by grief, it might be the only place in town to get a drink in the evening. He would definitely take Thomas up on his word.

“I don’t know if they’re any good…” Thomas apologised in advance. “Carol says my drinks are just good enough.”

“How old is Carol?” York asked, picturing the young, round-faced woman in her own bar. It seemed like an interesting career for a woman who shouldn’t legally be drinking yet.

“She’s twenty,” Thomas answered. “The bar hasn’t been open that long, but she’s doing so well running it. Carol can do anything she sets her mind to.”

“A dedicated young woman,” York mused. Thomas nodded. It wasn’t long before they reached the sheriff’s department and York had to let him out. Thomas came round to his window to say goodbye and mention again the promise of a free drink. York watched him hurry off with amusement. He was definitely curious to see Thomas in a different environment. He glanced up at the sky. It was just starting to rain. He’d head back to the hotel and wait it out til evening.


	11. Galaxy of Terror

Chapter Eleven. [ Galaxy of Terror ]

It was nine in the evening when York arrived at the Galaxy of Terror. The sign blinking above the door made him picture himself as a P.I. in an old black and white movie. When he went inside, the image intensified. A piano at the far end of the room, set on a small stage, filled the room with soft jazz music. The light was dim and red. Carol had put a lot of thought into the atmosphere of this place. He was surprised she hadn’t named it something more appropriate, like The Big Sleep. Maybe she had a fondness for science fiction.

York took a seat at the bar and Thomas caught sight of him and rushed over at once, eyes wide.

“York!” he said. “You… took me up on my offer!” It was endearing how little faith Thomas had had that he would follow through with his promise, York thought. Maybe he was used to people taking advantage of him. He certainly seemed to live in a permanent state of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I did, Thomas,” York said. “What drink would you recommend?”

“I’ll make you something special,” Thomas said and began fussing with bottles under the counter. York took the moment to look around. The bar was fairly quiet. There were a handful of people sitting around at tables drinking, or listening to the piano player. None of them were people he recognised, and he had already filed them away as non-entities in his head. It was natural that there were people in Greenvale who would have nothing to do with the case, after all.

Thomas eventually produced a tumbler with a shot of brown alcohol in it. He topped it up with soda and finished with a winding string of red syrup from a thin bottle. He pushed it carefully across the counter for York to take.

“A whiskey and coke with cherry syrup,” Thomas said proudly. “I think you’ll like it.” York took a sip. It blended nicely. The usual strong taste of the whiskey was muted somewhat by the sweetness of the syrup. A good mix.

“Amazing, Thomas, thank you.” Thomas blushed and shuddered happily at the compliment. York smiled to himself. Thomas really was more in his element here.

“It’s on the house,” Thomas said, true to his earlier promise.

“You’re giving him free drinks now?” York turned his head to see Carol walking over to them. She was wearing a long, tight red dress that almost touched the floor, and a feather boa around her shoulders. Very dramatic.

“S-sorry, Carol,” Thomas apologised quickly. Even though he was the older sibling, he acted like a child compared to her, York thought. She just had that kind of presence.

“If it’s an issue, Carol, I’ll happily pay,” York said, taking out his wallet. He put two bills down on the bar top and Thomas took it silently. The gesture did not seem to appease Carol.

“Just cause you’re an FBI agent, don’t think you’re better than us,” Carol said harshly. “You can’t play Thomas like that. He doesn’t owe you a thing.”

“Ah, of course,” York said. Her aggression was at least partially protective, then. That made him feel better. Thomas could use someone as tough as Carol looking out for him. “So, Carol, what made you want to open a bar?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” she said wrinkling her nose. York took out a cigarette. He needed it. Carol automatically reached for one of her own, and they lit them in unison.

“Carol,” York said after a moment. “I know you knew Quint.” She barely reacted, only creasing her face slightly in annoyance. “You knew Becky from school, so it’s only logical you knew Quint as well. So tell me. What was your relationship like with him?”

“Relationship…?” she scoffed. “I don’t care about Quint. He was an idiot before he died and he’s an idiot now for getting himself killed. I only wish he was alive so I wouldn’t have to deal with you.” York was impressed by her complete lack of interest in appeasing the police. She seemed to feel completely and utterly above the law. What else could he expect from someone who was operating a bar without legally being able to drink.

Almost as if she’d read his mind, Carol leant over the bar and grabbed a bottle filled with green liquid. She took a glass from under the counter and poured herself a drink. She drank it in one and left the mess on the bar, where Thomas came and quickly cleared it away. She stared York down until he began to feel uneasy. He dealt with criminals and murderers every week, and here was a twenty-year-old girl making him feel threatened. Impressive.

“I have to go,” she said sharply. “Some of us have work to do.” She walked over to the stage and York watched as she took up her place in front of the microphone. A moment later she began to sing, her voice lazy and low, mixing perfectly with the piano and blending into the background in such a way that made the music seem like it would always be there, it was that integral to the atmosphere. And yet as soon as he looked away, her singing became just part of the noise of the bar. It was the focus of everything and unnoticeable, both at once. Enigmatic.

York sat, sipping his drink and enjoying the quiet for a while. His conversation with Thomas had been spoiled and Carol’s interruption had clearly scared him off, as he stood at the far end of the bar cleaning glasses with a cloth. Oh well, York thought, they could talk again at the sheriff’s department. It had been enough to just see him out of that office, get a better idea of who he was. While he was thinking about it, a figure sidled over to the bar and sat down. They were wearing a knee-length green dress that left their stockinged legs visible. Diane.

“Ah, the FBI agent,” she said absentmindedly. She gave Thomas a look that was enough for him to know what drink she wanted. She sat a couple of stools down, but York thought they may as well be at the same table. She was going to talk to him regardless.

“Diane,” he acknowledged. “Did you speak with your sister?”

“Oh no,” Diane said. “Becky and I barely speak. I’m sure I told you that.” York was unimpressed. She acted as if he hadn’t specifically asked her to contact her sister for the sake of the investigation. He was hardly just a man asking for a favour. It had been an official request.

“Diane, I wanted you to persuade Becky to talk to us. It’s crucial we know what she knows as soon as possible.” Diane barely registered that he was speaking. She was more interested in the drink that Thomas was preparing. As soon as he handed it over in a martini glass, she took the cocktail stick and ran the olive over her tongue, licking off the residual trace of alcohol.

“You’ll have more luck than I would,” she said eventually. “At least she knows you have Quint’s best interests at heart.”

“Did you not like Quint, Diane?” York asked, leaning closer. “Did you not think he was a good match for your sister?”

“Becky is capable of making her own choices, and mistakes,” Diane said in a distant, amused way. She sipped delicately from the glass. Her attention was a hard thing to earn, York thought. And he bet better men than he had tried. For different reasons, naturally.

“Becky dating Quint was a mistake?” he asked. Diane gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

“If it was, it’s over now,” she said. That was not a good enough answer for York. She really was resistant to all forms of questioning. Diane, he decided, was the kind of woman you could become obsessed with. She drew you in with that hint of possibility, the chance that you could earn her respect, even her trust. But you never would, never. She would lead you by a string over the cliff. Despite this realisation, York knew that he and Diane could never see eye to eye. She was the kind of person he couldn’t tolerate in his personal life. When on his own time, he tried to only interact with real, straightforward people. That intolerance might be why his life was not full of friends, but he wouldn’t compromise the point.

It made the occasional person you could connect with all the more special.

“Diane, I hope you realise that failing to help the police when asked could be considered an obstruction of justice,” York said calmly.

“I hope you’re not threatening me, Agent,” Diane said. Her tone grew all the more hushed and personal as their train wreck of a conversation went on. It turned from stilted small talk to an exchange of secrets in her mouth. Quite the opposite of what should happen.

“Of course not, don’t be absurd,” York said. “I only hope you change your mind about talking to your sister. Becky can help us, and I’m sure she wants Quint’s killer behind bars as much as we do.”

“Do you think so?” Diane said softly. She tilted her head towards him and fixed him with a dark, enticing smile. He almost couldn’t look away. She finished her drink and got up from her seat. “Goodbye for now,” she said and went for the door. It was only after she’d left that York realised he hadn’t said anything to stop her.

“Agent York?” Thomas said. He’d come back over to him now that he wasn’t being watched by his sister. Carol’s voice still filled the air like water vapour, settling on every surface. “What was that all about?” York shrugged stiffly to try and dissipate the tense sensation burning in his chest.

“Emily and I went to talk to Diane Ames about her sister, but she has decided not to help us in the investigation,” York explained. Thomas looked alarmed.

“Really?” he gasped. “I mean… maybe that isn’t a surprise with Diane, but still!”

“What kind of person do you think she is, Thomas?” York asked. It would be useful to hear a neutral opinion. After all, there was always a chance Diane was wound up because of the murder. She might not always act so frustratingly.

“She’s… reclusive,” Thomas said hesitantly. “She has her friends, but a lot of people don’t like her because of her, um, er… hobbies.”

“Her interest in art?” York asked.

“No,” Thomas said slowly. “Her interest in men.” That didn’t surprise York in the least. Thomas carried on talking. “Carol and she… well I know they don’t get along well. Diane bothers her.” York suppressed an amused smile. That was only natural. Diane, the older woman of the two, clearly appealing to anyone she wanted, and Carol, the fresh-faced recent adult, crudely trying to fill the same slot. It was funny.

“Have they crossed paths romantically?” York asked. Thomas let out a frantic whining noise.

“York!” he cried out, “My sister doesn’t –” York put up a hand to stop him.

“I meant, have they fallen out over an interest in the same man,” he clarified. Although he thought Thomas’ horror was especially amusing, considering the way he presented himself. It had taken York a moment, but he was beginning to think Thomas might stay a bachelor for quite some time. Either way, he looked happier now that York had made it clear what he’d meant.

“Oh, I see,” Thomas sighed in relief. “Perhaps, I don’t know. Carol’s personal life is her personal life.” The answer was quite terse. It didn’t ring true. Maybe the truth was embarrassing, or something Carol had asked Thomas not to talk about, anyway. York couldn’t fault him for keeping a secret for his little sister.

“Thank you,” he said. Thomas smiled and left him to it. York didn’t stay in the bar much longer. He didn’t want to have another fight when Carol was done singing her set, so he left and drove himself back to the hotel, thankful he hadn’t had more to drink. Alcohol didn’t affect him that strongly, but it was better to be cautious. He hadn’t noticed any kind of cab service in Greenvale, and would not want to have to sleep off an evening of drinking in a field, or something like it.

When he got back to the hotel, as he was crossing the lobby, he was surprised to find someone else there. He had thought, odd as it was, that he was the only guest. The figure ahead of him, standing at their full height, was clearly not Polly. Through the dark of the room, it was hard to make them out. Thankfully, they seemed to sense him at the same time as he did them, and came over.

“Well hi there!” York was certainly surprised to see the man who had dropped Diane off in his pickup outside the art gallery. But it was definitely him, he recognised the wide smile and worn overalls. He also noted the presence of the Dalmatian hovering behind the man’s legs.

“Hello,” York said, after taking a second to process the man’s greeting. “I’m FBI agent Francis York Morgan. But please, just call me York. Everyone always does.”

“An FBI agent?” The man asked. He had what York thought was a country accent. Like a farmer in a movie. “Oh, you must be the one trying to solve that murder! Well, pleasure to meetcha! I’m Forrest. Forrest Kaysen. I’m a travelling salesman. Saplings, trees, plants in general.”

“Ah, then you must like Greenvale. There are plenty of beautiful trees around here,” York said. Forrest nodded cheerfully. York couldn’t picture him with any emotion but pleasant, sociable happiness.

“I come here often! It’s like a second home to me,” Forrest explained. “Oh, and I always stay here. Isn’t this a nice hotel? Polly keeps it real nice considering the size and her being all by herself these days. It’s a real pleasure staying here, I always think.”

“Then are you familiar with the people who live here?” York asked.

“Yeah, well some,” Forrest said. “I’m close with the Ingram family, and Polly of course. Diane and I are friends, though I expect she told you that.” He winked at York. “I saw you talking with her. You should know she’s not the sort to do wrong, oh no. She may not be the most moral person, but she knows where to draw the line.”

“Thank you for your opinion,” York said. He could only wonder where exactly ‘the line’ was.

“Anyway,” Kaysen said with a dramatic false yawn. “I’ll leave you to it. It’s getting late, and I have things to do tomorrow. Oh, I’m an early riser. A real morning person! I like to think of myself as a busy bumblebee, starting my day off with the sun, buzzing from place to place.”

“Ah yes, because bees love flowers, and you are a plant salesman,” York said. Kaysen raised his eyebrows and grinned in a way that came off as sarcastic. If the reference was so obvious that he shouldn’t have explained it out loud, York hadn’t noticed.

“I’ll see you around, York!” Forrest said, waving him goodbye and disappearing back into the shadows of the corridor.

“Looks like we have another face in our cast of characters, Zach,” York muttered. “I wonder what role our busy bee will play?”


	12. York’s Second Dream

Chapter Twelve. [ York’s Second Dream ]

I am standing in the red room. Broken, jagged walls stick up like rib bones from the ground. Walls from the diner, I recognise them. I am in the diner, I am in the other world, the red room.

There are people all around me, buzzing. Literally. Where there should be features I see shaking shapes, TV static come to life. I don’t recognise any of them. It would be impossible.

I walk forward and ahead of me is a table.

Laid out on a napkin is a triangle of bread, a sandwich. Jam pumps from it like blood. It’s waiting there like one of Alice in Wonderland’s bottles.

“It’s for me, isn’t it, Zach?” I ask.

“Don’t be so sure,” he answers.

But it’s just sitting there. And this is my dream.

“Have take, go. Onward bite.” I jump. One of the buzzing shapes in the background has stepped forward. They gesture with arms of thin, vibrating skin to the table. Is this shape a waitress, sending me my order?

“Can I…?” I ask.

“It all. Made you. For you. I did make. You welcome make.” The figure gestures again and I bring the sandwich to my lips.

“She isn’t talking to you,” Zach warns me, but I’m entranced. The red in the bread leaks onto my fingers, and I’m stained. It drips down onto the floor, itself a mess of red seeds, shifting gently like spring leaves in the wind.

I bite into it.

There are rough shapes inside the bread and soft meat. Cereal. Turkey. It’s the sandwich from the diner. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. As I swallow, I feel a warm glow inside. This sandwich is beyond food.

“York, it’s not for you!” Zach says again. I can barely stop eating it, the taste is overwhelming, but out of respect for Zach, I look down. This isn’t right.

The sandwich looks wrong. It feels wrong in my mouth. I spit it out into my hand. This… no.

No turkey, no cereal, no jam. I hold a handful of chewed flesh and finger bones. It all drips between my fingers with the thick, gross, gore of blood I mistook for strawberry jam. I try to shake it off, waving my hands, but nothing. My palms are stained bright red. I wipe them frantically and only succeed in bloodying my clothes.

“From me.”

I look up and see where the voice came from. Quint. Hovering seamlessly behind the table, his arms held wide. All over him I can see bite marks. Torn, ragged chunks of flesh are missing from his arms and neck. Angry, angry, red love bites gone too far.

“They take. From me. For you.” Quint’s voice is strained and breathy. Almost as if the duct tape is still wrapped around his face, smothering his final scream. Forever locked in his voice box.

“Who did, Quint?” I ask. I shout. “Who did this to you?”

“They take,” he says again, and points, his arm stretching out behind me. I spin around and they are there. The Raincoat Killer. I only have a second to leap out of the way before an axe crashes through the table where I was standing.

Now I’m stuck on my back on the floor. Vulnerable. My arms splayed at my sides just like he was when they killed him, that night at the mill.

“Zach?” I cry out.

“You’ll survive, York!” he calls back. Zach, comforting to the end. “Just relax!”

The Raincoat Killer looms. They’re going to kill me. I know they will.

And yet, just as the axe is going to connect, I wake up.

♦ ♦ ♦

It’s still the middle of the night. The room is pitch black. In fact, I can’t be sure I’m not still dreaming. In a different layer of unconsciousness, perhaps. All those jumbled shapes, the killer, the diner… I really can’t let myself go to bed hungry.

“Zach,” I whisper, my voice breathing out softly into darkness. “Did you see what I almost ate? I can’t believe I was still thinking about it. And to think I wanted to try one.” I shiver, despite the warm blankets, at the memory of those bones cracking against my teeth. “They should call it the ‘Sinner’s Sandwich’. Don’t you think so, Zach?”


	13. Becky

Chapter Thirteen. [ Becky ]

York sat in a stiff chair in the conference room of the sheriff’s department, sipping the coffee Thomas had brought him. It was good and hot, and the cream was top shelf stuff. One thing he would say in Greenvale’s favour was that everyone there seemed to know how to make a cup of coffee the right way. Thomas sat opposite him with his usual nervy smile. They were waiting for the others to arrive.

“You got here very early today, York,” Thomas said.

“Yes, I didn’t sleep well,” York explained. He could almost still taste the viscera of the dream. Thankfully the coffee was helping with that.

The door opened and George entered followed by Emily. George’s gaze immediately fell on York and he scowled.

“Agent Morgan,” he said. “Just so you know, I arrived here twenty minutes ago. I was talking with Emily in the parking lot. Why are you here so early?” He really wouldn’t admit any kind of loss, York thought, no matter how small. With a quick glance at Emily, York smiled.

“Of course, George,” he said. “I just didn’t get a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

“So what does the great Agent Morgan want his worker bees to do today,” George huffed as he sat down beside Thomas. Emily continued to stand by the door.

“Now George,” York said levelly, though it was hard to hide his amusement completely. “I believe that would make me the queen bee, and that’s not a title I think I can pull off.”

“No?” Emily said, unable to resist joining in. “Aww, you’d make an excellent queen. Bossing all the other bees around.” She covered her mouth for a moment to snigger in peace.

“Maybe I was wrong,” York said smirking. “George, sadly I don’t think bees have kings, so there’s no role for you. After all, you’re hardly a worker bee.”

“If you’re done,” George said sharply. “What are you going to do today while those of us who care about Greenvale work to solve this murder? Another daytrip?”

“Actually,” York said, suddenly serious. “I was planning on taking Emily back to Becky’s house. We’ve given her enough time already. We have to get a statement from her. Quint was meant to be meeting her on the night he died, so there’s a chance she knows something about what happened to him. Even if she doesn’t realise it yet.”

“Very well,” George said, apparently surprised by the shift in tone. “Take Emily along and get something out of her. Thomas and I will go around town and try and find this motorcycle that’s gone missing. Thomas?” George got up and at the sound of his name, Thomas immediately jumped up to follow. He looked like a lapdog, York noticed. Chasing his master. Still, this would get the sheriff off his back for the day, and if they did turn up Quint’s bike, it would be a useful clue.

“Well then, Emily,” York said, after they’d left. “Shall we?”

♦ ♦ ♦

After a drive, York and Emily found themselves outside of Becky’s mansion once again. York knocked and they waited to see if she’d be friendlier this time.

“So why didn’t you sleep?” Emily asked. York looked at her. “I just mean,” she said quickly, embarrassed that she’d asked a personal question without thinking, “I was up late too. There was a horror movie marathon on and I ended up staying up way later than I planned. I wondered if you did the same thing. That’s all.”

“Sadly, I did not,” York said. Although if he’d known about the marathon, he might have been tempted. “What was on?”

“A few cheesy old movies…” Emily admitted. “And that one about the miner. My Bloody Valentine.”

“From 1981?” York asked. She nodded and his face cracked into a wide grin. “Ah, that’s a classic. The killer in a gas mask stalking the small town, the teenagers being picked off one by one. A perfect slasher movie. Although I must admit, I guessed the killer straight away.”

“No way!” Emily laughed. “You might be able to catch murderers in the real world, but I can’t believe you can just guess the killer that easily in a horror movie.”

“I did the same thing with Prom Night,” York bragged. “From 1980, with Jamie Lee Curtis. Did you see that one? Now that was sad. I have to say, I sympathised with the killer that time.”

“Is that the sort of thing an FBI agent should admit…?” Emily asked teasingly. “And no, I haven’t seen it. So I don’t know how misplaced your sympathy is.”

“I’ll have to find a copy,” York said. Emily didn’t say anything, but she smiled. York realised what he’d said had sounded like an invitation for them to watch it together. He wasn’t sure if he should try and clarify, but mercifully the door opened before he was forced to struggle over the question.

“Why won’t you leave? I didn’t answer for a reason.” Becky peered around the crack in the door. She looked worse than she had a couple of days ago, and it seemed like she hadn’t showered since before then. Her hair hung limply over her face and York felt a rush of sympathy for the bereaved girl. She was only young. First her parents, and now her boyfriend. She’d lost too much.

“Becky?” York said softly. “I’m afraid we have to come in. This is no longer optional.”

“Y-yeah?” Becky said. “Well, what if I don’t let you?”

“Becky,” Emily said. She spoke firmly, but she still sounded kind. Like an older sister. “If you don’t let us in, we’ll have to bring you to the station. And none of us want that. Please just let us in for a bit, we won’t take up too much of your time.” Becky didn’t answer for a moment, letting the reality sink in. Then she finally opened the door.

“Fine,” she said in a small voice. “Come through.” York and Emily followed Becky through to a large set of doors on the bottom floor. They opened into a bedroom and she went through and planted herself on the edge of the bed. It was a huge room, bigger than his hotel suite, York thought. There was a large flat screen TV which he enviously thought would be excellent for watching some old classics on. There were sleek white sofas arranged around the TV, but they faced away from the bed, so York and Emily were forced to stand.

“So, Becky,” York said, preparing himself to memorise her every word. “What happened on the night Quint died?”

“Nothing,” she said sharply. “Nothing happened! That’s why it’s so messed up… nothing happened!”

“Could you explain that a little?” York asked. He tried to keep his voice low and gentle. He knew Emily would appreciate it, and Becky clearly wouldn’t respond well to aggression. She was wounded.

“I was expecting something…” she whimpered. She had her knees up on the bed and was sitting hunched over them. She was still wearing shoes and York noticed a number of dirty prints all over the white blanket. She must have been sitting like this a lot.

“Go on, Becky, it’s all right,” Emily said gently. Becky took a deep in-breath.

“He was meant to come over here,” she said. “But he didn’t show up all night. I called his dad… and he hadn’t seen him. He was just gone.” She rubbed her cheeks over her knees and her shoulders shook with a repressed sob. “And then he was gone for real…!”

“You were expecting him, then?” York asked. “Richard said he mentioned coming over here.”

“He did?” Becky asked. All her words were strangled by her choked, silent sobbing, and her desire not to cry out loud. “So he was gonna come… they ki-killed him… before he could get here.”

“Why would you think he wasn’t coming, Becky?” York asked, noticing what she’d said. She shook her head frantically, refusing to look up from her knees.

“It’s not important…” she mumbled.

“Becky, let us decide what’s important, we need to know everything,” Emily pressed.

“No…” she mumbled again. “If he was coming here, then I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” York asked. They were getting somewhere at last.

“He…” Becky started. She didn’t want to say whatever nasty little titbit was stuck in her throat like a lump of food that just couldn’t be swallowed. She had to spit it out. “I thought he was meeting someone else. I thought he was with someone else before he died.”

“Someone else?” Emily said carefully, glancing at York. They both understood the implication.

“Yeah…” Becky whimpered. “When he didn’t show up I thought he was with her. I called Richard, and he hadn’t seen him so I knew he was out. And I called Anna and she told me not to be paranoid. I woke them both up, I felt so bad, but I couldn’t bear it… He was with someone else, and we… we were meant to be forever.”

“This was around one am?” York asked. Becky shrugged.

“I guess?” she said. He knew from what Richard had said that it was. He pressed his mouth up to Emily’s ear so Becky couldn’t hear him.

“He was dead by then,” he said quietly. Emily turned to him and mouthed ‘are you sure?’ He nodded.

“I thought he was with her…” Becky cried into her knees. “I thought he was with her and he was dying. He was scared. He wanted me, and he was in pain, and I was here thinking that about him. I even wished –” she immediately cut herself off. York wondered if the next words would have been ‘that he was dead’. If so, Becky had a bit of a dark streak in her. Maybe it ran in the blood.

“Who are you talking about Becky?” Emily asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Becky cried, her words dissolving into full, wet sobs now. She was inconsolable. “It doesn’t matter! He loved me and I let him down! I let him down! I let him down!” The sentence was repeated over and over again, becoming unrecognisable as she wept into her knees. York gestured towards the door. He knew they’d got all they could. When he and Emily were safely outside the front door again, she turned to him.

“We have to know who she meant!” Emily said, almost excitedly. She was getting involved in the intrigue, York thought. “That person could be the killer!”

“I don’t know about that, Emily,” York said. “But I do know Becky couldn’t tell us any more than she did. Besides, I have an idea who she meant.”

“You do?” Emily asked in shock. York nodded. He’d thought through it as soon as Becky had let it slip. “Another thing…” Emily asked. “Why do you think Quint was already dead by then?”

“It’s just a suspicion, Emily,” York said. “But Quint and Becky had both arranged to meet each other. He left home when his father closed the bar, and he closed up early so he could have dinner with a friend. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t eat dinner in the middle of the night, so we know Quint left home before it got too late. It’s not too far to ride over to Becky’s house on his bike, he should have got there fairly quickly. But he didn’t. The killer intercepted him before then, brought him to the mill, and killed him. He would have died sometime before 1am, when she started to panic, I’m sure.”

“Oh, wow,” Emily said, impressed. “But what if he wasn’t going to see Becky at all? What if he was going to see this other ‘her’ Becky was worried about?”

“Then we should go and ask her,” York said simply.

“Oh yeah?” Emily said. “And who are we going to talk to, exactly?”

“Emily,” York said. “When I was on my own yesterday, I managed to think through a lot of things. And I had one realisation in particular that’ll help us here.” He took out a cigarette as he spoke, lazily strolling towards his point without realising that Emily was eager to hear the end. “Of all the women in this town, there are only two people Becky could have been referring to. Two people who have a certain… atmosphere about them, who want to be seen in a certain way. I’m sure that Becky knew when she was talking to us that we’d be able to decipher exactly who she meant with her cryptic references. She wanted to tell us, but the words were too painful. Saying it would be like admitting her suspicions about her boyfriend, and now that he’s dead, she can’t bring herself to do that. She has to believe he would never hurt her.” He placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it.

“Yes?” Emily said, the tension killing her. “Who are they?”

“Well Emily, it’s obvious,” York said. “The first is someone who knew them both, who has no regard for other people’s opinions, and who thinks of herself as a real femme fatale.” He paused. Emily couldn’t tell if it was for effect or just because he was enjoying the cigarette. “Carol MacLaine,” he added a moment later.

“Carol…?” Emily said hesitantly. “Thomas’ sister… all right. I suppose that makes sense.” She sighed briefly, not excited by the trouble this particular avenue might lead to. “And who else?”

“That’s even more obvious,” York said, breathing smoke into the air. “It’s Diane.”


	14. Femme Fatale

Chapter Fourteen. [ Femme Fatale ]

The art gallery was open when they arrived. There was no-one in the vast entrance hall, but as they walked in the sound of laughter came bubbling up through the air and they followed. A few minutes later they found Diane and her friend Forrest talking in a room of paintings.

“This is funny,” York said as they approached the two. “Forrest, here you are in a room full of trees.” York gestured around the room and sure enough, every painting on the walls was of trees and woods. Forrest looked at him with strained amusement. Diane offered him a very flat smile.

“You’ve come to see me again, Agent,” she said. “You must be getting very fond of me.”

“We have questions,” Emily said, butting in hastily. “Diane, can we speak with you alone?”

“Sure,” Forrest said good-humouredly. “I guess I can get going, I was planning on meeting the Ingrams soon anyway. Oh, it’ll be nice to see Keith again, I have a few good stories to tell him! And Lilly, why she’s lovelier every time I see her…” He trailed off into thought, and a moment later shuddered back into life, making his way off out of the room past Emily and York. When he was gone, York walked up to Diane and Emily was quick to follow.

“Diane,” York began coldly. “We spoke with Becky. She believes Quint might have been seeing someone else. Do you know anything about that?”

“I can’t say I’m interested in the love affairs of teenagers, Agent,” Diane said. She laughed and the sound was like someone striking a wine glass with a fork. It made you pay attention.

“Did you ever spend any time with Quint, Diane?” York pressed. “Did you know him personally?”

“What an interesting question,” Diane said. “I wonder what the implication might be.”

“Did you ever show any interest in Quint?” York asked plainly. “Romantically.”

“Who I see ‘romantically’, if that’s the word you want to use to refer to who I sleep with,” Diane said playfully, “Is my business alone. After all, if I answered this question and you came back tomorrow to ask me about someone else, where does it end? Before the week is out, everyone’s dirty laundry is blowing in the breeze. And I can’t have that. There are certain people who might not want their secrets out.” This last part she said very precisely and York knew she was hinting at something she would never willingly explain.

“Then just tell me if you were sleeping with Quint, and I won’t come back with any more questions,” he said grudgingly. It was the only way to bargain with her. She wanted to be left alone and she wasn’t giving him anything anyway.

“I wasn’t,” Diane said, her voice rippling with a dark amusement like waves breaking on a beach. She had answered his question, but she’d still managed to win. She made him compromise.

“Thank you,” York said stiffly. He turned to go. He was tired of dealing with her and didn’t want to spend an unnecessary moment in the gallery, with its mazes of hallways and paintings of the dark woods, drawing you in deeper than you should ever go. The owner was no worse than her home.

“Do you think she was telling the truth?” Emily asked under her breath.

“If she wasn’t, I don’t think she would have bothered saying anything,” York reasoned.

♦ ♦ ♦

They eventually tracked Carol down to the diner. She was drinking a cup of coffee and when she saw them come in, her lip curled into a snarl. Undeterred, York came and sat opposite her in the booth. Emily stood.

“Carol,” he said pleasantly. “Are you having a good day?”

“Bite me,” she spat. So today would be nothing out of the ordinary, he thought. At least he knew what to expect.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. “I spoke with Becky –”

“Whatever she told you isn’t true,” Carol snapped. Very touchy, York thought. “She makes stuff up for attention.”

“This is about Quint,” York continued.

“So?” Carol said. “I told you, she lies.”

“It’s a simple question,” York said, trying his best to ignore Carol’s interruptions. “Did you plan on meeting Quint the night he died? Becky thinks he might have had plans to meet someone else.”

“I was busy that night,” Carol said. “I was at the bar.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question,” York said patiently. “I’ll just be frank with you, Carol. Did you and Quint have a relationship? A romantic relationship?”

“Did Becky say that?” Carol asked sharply. She was definitely irritated by the idea.

“I just want an answer,” York said. Carol sniffed at him.

“I didn’t kill him,” she said. “He wouldn’t be worth scuffing my nail polish over.” As York began to phrase his next question, she got up and made straight for the door. She was gone in a moment.

“Should we go after her?” Emily asked. York shook his head. If she wasn’t going to answer, he wasn’t going to brute force her into it. Someone else would have the answer he wanted. Just then, there came the sound of a crash from the kitchen and everyone in the room looked up. Olivia stood in shell-shocked silence staring down at a broken plate that had fallen from her hands. Nick was beside her, looking between her and the dinner full of curious eyes.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he growled at his wife. “Not now.” He disappeared back into the kitchen, hiding himself in his work. Olivia bent down and numbly began clearing up the broken pieces. York, intrigued, went over to her. She let out a squeak of fear when she noticed him.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” York apologised quickly. “Maybe I can help?”

“Oh…” Olivia said. “I don’t think the FBI needs to help me with a broken plate.”

“That’s very funny, Olivia,” York said smiling. She tried to smile bravely back at him, but it seemed hollow. “Let me.” He took the pieces away from her, carefully gathering up all the big shards. As he had wanted, Olivia followed him when he walked out of sight of Nick to put them in the trash.

“Thank you…” she said.

“Olivia,” York said quietly. “Is everything all right at home? I couldn’t help but notice –”

“It’s fine!” she said quickly in a hushed voice, glancing back towards the kitchen. It was obvious she didn’t want her husband to overhear. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Olivia… I’d prefer you told me the truth.” York sighed. He knew from the frightened look in her eyes that she wasn’t going to.

“Nothing’s wrong!” she said again, wearing the fakest smile he had ever seen. “I have to go.” She walked away from him, back to the kitchen, and York couldn’t help but feeling he could have done something more to help. He wondered what had Olivia so rattled. Something was causing a problem between her and Nick, and Nick certainly wouldn’t be the one to reveal a word of it. Emily came back over to him, after watching the scene unfold.

“What’s going on there?” she asked, but he couldn’t answer.

“It seems we have two mysteries to solve today, Emily,” he said. “The question of Carol’s relationship with Quint, and the nature of the problem between Nick and Olivia. I think I know who we can go to for both answers.”

“Oh yeah?” Emily asked. By now, she was happy for him to just carry on with his rambling explanations without trying to guess where he was going.

“Shall we go?” he asked, smiling. She smiled back and rolled her eyes.

♦ ♦ ♦

Later, Emily and York found themselves sitting in the Graham’s living room. Anna Graham sat in an armchair next to them and Sallie hovered around, refusing to sit and join them but refusing to leave.

“Well then, Anna,” York began. “What I wanted to ask was this. Do you know if Quint was seeing anyone else before he died?”

“Well… he and Becky,” Anna said uncertainly. York shook his head.

“No, other than Becky. Was he seeing someone else? Had he cheated on Becky?” He could see some discomfort on Anna’s face and he knew she knew the answer. As Becky’s best friend, Anna would have to know every one of her worries.

“Like… he wasn’t,” Anna said slowly. “But I know Becky thought he was.”

“Who was it?” Emily asked. “No-one’s going to get in trouble.”

“Um. Okay,” Anna said uncertainly. “I suppose. You know Carol MacLaine?”

“I thought so,” York said, a little trace of smugness in his voice. He did enjoy being right. Thankfully, he had plenty of chances to enjoy the feeling. “Were Carol and Quint seeing each other?”

“No!” Anna assured. “I mean I hope not. I don’t think so. I think Quint loved Becky, but… they used to. Back at school, for a bit.” She sighed. “Me and Becky used to hang out with Carol sometimes at school. She was older and she…” She looked quickly to make sure her mother was briefly out of earshot. “She got us cigarettes and stuff,” she said quietly. “Anyway, Quint was friends with us too obviously and Becky always liked him. Carol went out with him for a bit just before she left school and Becky always hated it. We were still friends with her after that, I… I liked her still and I wanted to keep hanging out with her. Becky never trusted her though and lately she kept telling me she thought Quint was cheating with Carol. Like I say, I don’t think so, but I dunno.”

“Thank you for that, Anna,” York said. Of the two girls, Anna was definitely a lot chattier than Becky. Mercifully. He looked at Emily. “So Becky was suspicious of Quint. Maybe that night they arranged to meet was meant to be a peace treaty between the two of them. To get back on track.”

“Maybe,” Emily said, thinking it through. “Then someone was trying to derail their relationship?”

“Perhaps, but I’m not sure of that yet,” York said. He turned back to Anna. “How did you and Becky become friends with Carol?” he asked. “The two of you don’t seem to have a lot in common with her, from what I can tell.”

“Oh well, at school. She was always so popular and cool!” Anna said, her face lighting up as she spoke, widening into a large, white-teethed smile. “She would like… come to school late and sass teachers and stuff, and she was always smoking even if she knew she’d get caught.” Anna laughed to herself. “There was this one time… after school the three of us went to this old farm that’s always quiet in the evenings. We sat behind a shed and flicked pebbles at the horses and stuff so they’d smack them away with their tails. Carol had some vodka and she wanted us to try it. Becky wouldn’t, she said like her dad put her off the stuff or something? I don’t know. Anyway I said I would, but when I tried it tasted so gross, right? So Carol said she’d show me and she… like took my face in her hand and kind of fed me it. Like I was a baby deer or something…” Anna’s words faded out and her eyes had a faraway look. She’d got completely lost in her story, York thought. Drifting back into a simpler afternoon, years ago.

“Anna, what are you telling them?” Sallie shouted and Anna immediately came back, more a deer in the headlights than a fawn in someone’s lap. “You’re a good girl, don’t make up things like that!”

“Sorry…” Anna said. York could tell from looking at her that she’d forgotten all about her mother’s presence and revealed slightly more than she’d intended. The story certainly painted an interesting picture of Carol. The older, cooler girl that Anna and Becky saw was in contrast to how he’d thought of her in relation to Diane. In some ways then, Carol got to be who she wanted. No wonder she didn’t get along with Diane Ames.

“Emily,” York said. “Would you mind asking Sallie how Richard is getting on?” Emily understood what he was asking, and got up to go and get Sallie out of the way. She led her off to the dining room and York squared in on Anna again, in private now.

“Are you and Becky still friends with Carol?” he asked.

“After Becky got super paranoid about Quint cheating with Carol we stopped hanging out with her,” Anna admitted. “Becky wanted us to stop seeing her so I said I’d cut her out. I think Carol was pissed about it, but she tries to act cool, so I’m not sure if she cared that I… well that we stopped seeing her.”

“Were you and Carol close?” York asked. “Before the problems between her and Becky and Quint.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” Anna said quickly. “I only hung out with her sometimes, it wasn’t a big deal. Becky was always my best friend.”

“I see,” York said. “And another question, Anna, if you don’t mind. Are you aware of any problem between Nick Cormack and Olivia Cormack? They seem to be fighting, even at work.”

“I guess they are, yeah,” Anna said. Now that the focus was off Carol, her tone was breezier, more like a teenager gossiping in the school halls. “I know there’s something, but they try and hush up when I’m around. I overheard a few things at the diner though. I heard them fighting about being out late. Nick was accusing Olivia of doing something. I think…” Anna’s eyes rolled up into her head with effort as she tried to remember. “She was ‘betraying his trust’. That’s what he said. And Olivia said he couldn’t talk about betraying trust after everything he did. That’s all I know.”

“Thank you for that, Anna,” York said. Interesting developments. The Cormacks were not as happy a couple as they’d like people to believe. There was something under the surface, straining them. He would find out what. In this kind of case, any strife, any conflict, could be relevant in ways most people would never realise. He had to know what was eating the chef.

“Yeah, sorry I don’t know any more… they try and keep quiet,” Anna apologised. “Um, Agent York…” York waited for her to express whatever doubt was bothering her. “You’re not gonna ask Carol too much about Becky, right? It’ll just make them fight more and I think it’d be really bad for Becky after everything if Carol tries to fight with her too.”

“The two of them really don’t see eye to eye, do they?” York asked. Anna shook her head.

“No, and it’s not like that’s Becky’s fault. She was just worried about Quint,” she said. And she probably took that worry out on Carol, York thought. Although Carol could certainly take care of herself, and give as good as she got, he expected.

Before he could think of anything else to ask, Emily returned trailed by Sallie Graham. Sallie looked about ready to kick them out. He pre-emptively got up from the sofa.

“Thank you both for your help,” he said, offering both mother and daughter a smile before making his way to the exit. Once they were outside, Emily asked what he’d learnt and he summarised it all. Especially Anna’s attitude towards Carol and Becky.

“That’s odd,” Emily said. “Oh, and I learnt something from Sallie.”

“Let’s hear it, Emily,” York said. He felt a lesser police officer might have missed the chance to squeeze extra information out of Sallie, but Emily was too good to miss her opportunity. He was pleased.

“The night that Quint died, you remember Richard mentioned he was meeting a friend for dinner?” Emily said. “Well that friend was Sallie, and I’m using the term ‘friend’ loosely. They were having a romantic meal here at Sallie’s house. Part of the reason Richard’s under a cloud is that he thinks if he wasn’t on a date that night, he might have been able to stop whatever happened to Quint from happening. Sallie seems to feel the same, at least somewhat. The two of them have both been handling it badly.”

“Sallie and Richard…” York mused. “I see.”

“It’s put Sallie in a bad place,” Emily went on. “I could tell she’s been drinking again. There are wine bottles everywhere in the dining room, empty ones. She was talking about making Anna quit her job. So that ‘the next one’ isn’t her daughter.” Emily shuddered at the thought of a ‘next one’ of any kind. “She’s keeping her inside as much as she can. Probably why Anna isn’t over at Becky’s house right now, keeping her company.”

“Ah, yes. I would have expected Anna to want to be with her friend,” York said. “But at least now we know about the love triangle between Carol and Quint, and Becky. I think Carol can stand to answer a few more questions about that.”

“All right, York,” Emily said. “But I know Thomas won’t appreciate it if we start bugging his sister. The two of them are close.”

“I’ll make sure to only ask totally necessary questions, at your request, Emily,” York smiled. “Feel free to reign me in if I cross a line.”

“Just you wait!” Emily said. “I expect I’ll be picking up your teeth for you someday soon when you ask too many of the wrong questions.” The two of them shared a small laugh, then got ready to go.


	15. Stake Out

Chapter Fifteen. [ Stake Out ]

Thomas had prepared another excellent lunch. There were open faced sandwiches filled with egg and ham, chocolate doughnuts, and some of his amazing biscuits. York was just finishing his plate and washing it down with a hot cup of coffee when he came back to the point of their meeting.

“Thomas,” he said. Thomas looked up from where he was pushing eggs around his plate with a knife and fork. Very neat and tidy, York thought. “Do you know if Carol was dating anyone recently?”

“Dating? Carol…?” Thomas said anxiously. “Er, well. I… I don’t know. She might be, might have been. Why? Is it important?”

“Becky thinks that Carol might have been seeing Quint behind her back,” York explained. Thomas visibly relaxed.

“Yes!” he said. “They were together for a few months when Carol was eighteen, but she left him and I don’t think they got back together at all. She didn’t like him that much.”

“Thomas, you knew that Carol had dated the victim and you didn’t mention it?” Emily said, aghast. Thomas’ face fell when he realised what he’d said. He’d been so reassured that York’s focus was in this one small area that he’d accidentally blown the lid on his sister’s secret. York could only imagine what secret he was covering up that made this revelation seem inconsequential. Everyone in Greenvale had secrets, he was beginning to realise.

“There really are no pure small towns left in America, huh Zach,” he muttered to himself.

“What, York?” Emily asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Thomas, I’m sorry, but this is important to the case. Your sister may have her reasons, but she’s been reluctant to tell us anything. If she had a relationship with our victim, no matter how long ago, we’re going to have to question her.”

“If… if you think so…” Thomas stammered. The door to the conference room opened, and George entered. He came and sat down beside Thomas, the table shaking slightly with the sudden weight.

“What’s this now?” he asked.

“A-agent York thinks we need to talk to Carol about her relationship with Quint…” Thomas explained. George snorted in disbelief.

“Carol and Quint?” he said. “That’s ancient history. It has no bearing on the case today.”

“You don’t think so?” York asked. He was intrigued. The sheriff seemed to flip-flop between wanting to leave no stone unturned to catch their killer, and wanting to ignore anything that might be troubling to members of the local community. He was a man of contrast all right. “Did you know already, about the two of them?”

“Of course I did,” said George defensively. “And I know Carol hasn’t been seeing him for years, so there’s no need to dredge it all up now.”

“Hmm.” York found it odd that George was so involved in the personal life of the MacLaines. First he’d learnt that George had been friends with Thomas, even before he joined the police, and now it seemed George was on close terms with Carol as well. Family friends, perhaps? If so, none of them had any parents around to confirm it. And even then, the age gap seemed unusual for friends. Were things really so different out in the country?

“George, don’t you think we should question her a little?” Emily asked. George’s face softened when he looked at her. His voice came out more delicate, politer.

“I just don’t think we need to waste the time, Emily,” he said. “Everyone knows now about their relationship, and I don’t think Carol can provide any more detailed information than you already have. If you really think there’s a motive in there, we’d have to do more than question the girls involved.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Emily admitted. She did personally feel that, even if Carol was causing them problems, Becky had been through enough.

“Did you have any luck finding Quint’s bike?” York asked, changing the topic. George practically rippled with aggression. So it was a no, York thought.

“That damn thing’s gone!” George said roughly. “The killer’s got rid of it somewhere, no-one’s seen it. I even asked Lysander down at the junkyard and it hasn’t shown up there. It’s gone.”

“I see. How unfortunate,” York said. He finished the last dregs of his coffee. “Then we’re fresh out of new leads.”

“It looks that way,” Emily sighed. There was silence for a moment, as everyone tried to avoid eye contact. No-one was willing to acknowledge that as a police force, they had nothing.

“There are some things I need to go over,” York said. “On my own. I’ll see if I can’t find some new avenues for us to explore.” He smiled to himself. Not quite arrogant, but self-assured. It clearly rubbed George the wrong way.

“Good luck with that,” George snapped. “The rest of us will continue to do real work.” They parted ways for the day, and York drove himself back to the hotel where he could think in peace. He sat down at the desk in his suite, an old typewriter sitting in front of him. It was a novel thing for the hotel to provide, but he liked the idea of it. The nostalgic image of someone from decades ago typing out notes on it before bed.

“When in Rome, right, Zach?” he said. With a sense of excitement at the chance to use an abandoned technology, he typed up the points he wanted to focus on. The ideas, partially formed, that might turn into more. He pulled the paper out when he was done and read it back.

“The Red Seeds Murders.  
The Legend of the Raincoat Killer.  
The Cormacks’ Marriage Troubles.  
The Love Triangle.  
George Woodman.”

He nodded to himself before having a thought. He found a pen and wrote ‘The Man in the Graveyard’ at the end. He remembered his encounter there with a chill that started in his stomach and spread throughout him, pumping through his body with the blood. Brian, the man had called himself.

“How did he know your name, Zach?” York asked aloud. It was strange. Unreal. He wasn’t totally certain it hadn’t been a dream. Trying to forget for the moment, he went through the other items on his list.

“The murders with the red seeds…” York said. “We’ve seen them before, Zach. Cases all across the country of people who’ve been killed after eating those seeds, or whose bodies were found with them in some capacity. The bureau doesn’t recognise what type of plant they come from. Probably a hybrid, or something engineered. The murderers we’ve captured are incoherent when asked where they came from or why they fed them to their victims. Most of those murderers are dead now of course, suicide largely. So there’s a dark secret surrounding those seeds, isn’t there Zach? And this case, maybe this case will be the one where we crack it.”

“Now, this fairy tale,” he went on. “The legend of the Raincoat Killer. That’s fascinating. It starts off as an old story to scare children, a local legend, if you like. But then we find that note at the murder site, and that makes it something more.” He thought back, trying to remember it word for word. “On rainy nights. You eat the seeds. You kill for him. You will be washed in glory,” he repeated. “What do you make of that, Zach? Someone thinks this killer is more than just a story. And the seeds are mixed up into it as well. That’s the first strong lead we have on them. It makes me wonder if those red seeds that have been popping up across the country are from here in Greenvale after all.”

“Ah yes,” he said, remembering. “What was it Harry Stewart was trying to tell us? The Raincoat Killer was more than just a story. It was… truth,” he worked through the rhyme in his head. It was certainly one way of remembering information. “From his youth. Yes, that’s right, Zach. Harry Stewart knows something about this legend. We’ll have to go and ask him more about it, if he’s willing to open up to us. Or if one of them is.”

“Now the Cormacks.” He carried on down the list. “Olivia seems like the shy, sensitive type. Probably slightly too good for her husband, regardless of how well he can cook a turkey. Nick is rougher around the edges. They make quite the odd couple.” He smirked to himself. “They have secrets, and I want to know if they have any bearing on our case. Death sometimes brings out the worst in people. It makes people rethink their own lives, and sometimes you don’t like what you find. I wonder what the two of them have been rethinking.”

York skipped over the next item on his list. He’d spent enough time today thinking about Becky, Carol, and Quint’s schoolyard love problems. He couldn’t forget it completely, but if it was going to be important, he knew he’d hear more about it soon. It would come to him. These kind of things usually did. That brought him to the last thing.

“Sheriff George,” York said slowly. “Don’t get me wrong, Zach. He’s not our killer. This crime doesn’t fit with his personality at all, and he has no reason to kill Quint. But there is something going on with him. I’m curious to know just what it is.” York leant back in his chair. “He acts more like the king of Greenvale than the sheriff,” he mused. “And he doesn’t like me asking too many questions. He really didn’t like me asking about Carol. Don’t tell me, Zach… you don’t think there’s something going on with those two do you? It would explain a lot.” York’s expression soured. He didn’t want to imagine that the sheriff was having a relationship with a twenty-year-old. It would be a breach of ethics, an abuse of his station. But it could be true. If it was, he really couldn’t trust George. He was far too biased.

“I think I know how to find out the truth, Zach,” York said. “It’s obvious. Thomas. Thomas will know all about it. We’ll have to be careful though… I’ve seen how nervous he gets around George. He must be intimidated by his boss. We’re going to have to think this one through.”

♦ ♦ ♦

That night, York sat in a junker car across the road from the Galaxy of Terror. He’d managed to haggle the general down to only $500 for the rotten old car, which he was going to claim as an expense of the investigation. He couldn’t risk Thomas catching him in a police car. That is, if the thing managed to stay alive that long. There was a patch of rust on the inside of the door he didn’t like the look of.

“Here we go, Zach, our first thrilling revelation awaits us,” York said through his cigarette, his eyes fixed on the door of the bar. Thomas and Carol were both inside. Their cars were still parked outside. His plan was to follow Thomas, maybe Carol, whichever of them left first. One way or another, he was going to untangle this mess.

He had to wait for a while. The Galaxy of Terror didn’t see a lot of foot traffic, at least not tonight. Eventually the occasional trickle of people stopped completely, the last few visitors heading for home. Thomas and Carol remained inside. York waited. It surely wouldn’t take them that long to clean the place up and leave, would it? However, it quickly became clear that wasn’t the plan. Another car pulled up outside the bar. George’s car. York ducked down as low as he could manage and watched as George walked over to the door and knocked. Carol appeared a moment later. She took hold of his wrist and pulled him inside. It was intimate. York felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach, a mixture of nerves and disgust. So he did have a valid reason to dislike George. The feeling worsened a moment later when he realised that Thomas had to know all about the relationship. After all, he was still inside the bar himself. York had thought better of Thomas. That he would be comfortable letting his younger sister end up with his older boss was not something York would have expected. He stayed in position. There was bound to be more to find out.

A while later, Thomas emerged. It had started to rain and York felt comfortable that he was invisible in the darkness. Thomas glanced about in his usual nervous way and went to the pay phone that hung from the wall of the Galaxy of Terror. He dialled. York was curious. His sister and George were both inside. Who was he calling? York got out of the car. He was going to find out.

He approached carefully, methodically. Thomas spoke into the receiver and York had to creep quite close before he could make out the words.

“I told you… no,” Thomas was saying. “I can’t, not tonight… Really? Well, maybe… I know it was, but we can’t, not againaaah!” York needed to work on his stealth skills. He had got too close and Thomas had noticed him. He hung up the phone immediately and stared at York with a wounded, affronted expression on his face.

“Thomas…” York said casually, as if they had run into each other in the grocery store. “How are you?” Thomas glared at him. “Let’s get out of the rain,” York suggested, motioning towards his car. He walked Thomas towards it and a moment later the two of them were side by side in the back seat.

“Agent York! You were spying on me!” Thomas yelled. His voice got higher when he was upset, York noticed.

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” York said, as sincerely as he could. “The truth is I was pursuing a theory. I thought that George might be seeing someone inappropriate, and it seems I’m right.”

“Oh God!” Thomas said in a voice like a sob. “I can’t believe this! You know, I’m so embarrassed, I… I didn’t want you to know! You were… I just… a part of me…” He couldn’t seem to spit out what he meant and York felt there’d been a miscommunication.

“George and Carol are together, aren’t they?” he asked. It took a moment for his words to sink in.

“Oh!” Thomas said, brushing at his cheeks to deflect a few stray tears and the heat of embarrassment. “Y-yes. I admit it, they are. I don’t… it’s not good, is it?”

“No, Thomas, it isn’t good,” York said carefully. “But that wasn’t what you were just talking about, was it?” Thomas did not answer, he looked at his hands. “Thomas…” York pressed gently. “Are you and George…?”

“Yes,” Thomas admitted in a tiny squeak. “We have been… for a while. All three of us.”

“Thomas,” York said softly, trying to be as sympathetic as he could. He certainly felt sorry for him, seeing him like this. “That isn’t healthy.”

“I know that,” Thomas said sadly. “I… I know that. You’re not the only one who’s told me.”

“Who was on the phone, Thomas?” York asked. Someone who wanted to protect Thomas? Someone who didn’t want him and Carol to get involved with George?

“It... It’s not…” Thomas said, sounding distracted. “I can’t… It’s not any of your business!” he snapped finally. He snatched at his shoulders and held himself tightly. York wasn’t sure what to say. He’d hit on a nerve, uncovered a very raw secret. Thomas wasn’t going to give him anything else.

“I’m here for you, if you need help,” York said gently. Thomas looked at him for a moment with a deep longing, a recently unburied feeling, the desire to reach out and accept the offer of help. But his eyes cleared, and he shook his head.

“I need to go,” he said quickly, clambering out of the car door. “I’ll see you at work, goodbye Agent York.” York leant out of the door after him.

“Thomas!” he called after the retreating man, but Thomas ran into the rain, and a moment later he was gone. Just another blurry shape in the night. York sat back and shook his head, rubbing his temples in distress. He’d learnt more than he’d expected. More than he had honestly wanted to. He wondered if Emily knew. Thomas and George were both her friends, and while she didn’t seem to be close with Carol, he couldn’t imagine her happily sitting by while this carried on under her nose. No, he decided, Emily had no idea.

It was going to be a hard thing to bring up to her.


	16. Coffee and Tea

Chapter Sixteen. [ Coffee and Tea ]

The next day, York had taken Emily out for coffee at the diner. Thomas had called in sick to work and George was grinding away at whatever other work he had to get through. He had reminded York that other crimes didn’t cease just because an FBI agent came to town. George had lost almost all pretence of working with York on the murder, and York was perfectly happy with that. Emily was more than enough. He was hoping that here in the mundane pleasantness of the A&G diner, the news he had to share with her wouldn’t go over too badly.

“Emily,” York said carefully. She looked up at him over the rim of her cup. She held it up to her mouth in both hands, obscuring most of her face as she drank. York liked it as a habit. She seemed to enjoy the coffee more for it, it was less about rushing, more about taking your time over something.

“Yes?” she said as she finished sipping. York was not looking forward to this.

“Emily, I learnt something last night that I think you need to know.” She stared at him with a blank expression. Not because she was confused, York thought, but because she was ready to react to anything he could suggest. After all, there was quite a range of things it could be. “George… what do you know about his personal life?”

“Is this going to be about you two not getting along,” she sighed. “I don’t really want to get involved in the pissing contest, if that’s all right.” York shook his head, coming off far too serious for her liking. She started to worry.

“No,” he said. “I mean his relationships. Outside of work.”

“Outside of work?” Emily repeated with a frown. “He and Thomas are friends, I know that. And we’re friends, but… well, we don’t spend a lot of time together outside of work. Sometimes the three of us get dinner or some drinks, but that’s about it. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever even been to his house.”

“I see,” York said. He was glad to hear that although Emily considered them friends, they weren’t close. He knew that if he looked up to George in any way, this news would be depressing. Hopefully she would handle it well. “Emily, last night I discovered that George and Carol are in a relationship. Apparently, it’s been going on for a while.” Emily’s eyes widened.

“They are?” she said, dumbstruck. “He… he didn’t think that might be useful for us to know?!” York felt a tiny smile brewing. Emily’s first reaction, of righteous indignation, would have been his, too.

“Apparently not,” York said. “Although I suspect this is largely why he’s been unhelpful with the case. Once we figured out that Carol and Quint had a history and started looking into her, it seemed likely that the sheriff’s secret would come spilling out. It might do something to undermine his authority as a protector in Greenvale.”

“You bet it does!” Emily snapped. She was angry. Not just in general, York realised, but on a personal level. She felt betrayed. He didn’t blame her. “Carol… she’s twenty! He’s over twice her age, and he’s meant to be… agh! What is Thomas thinking, letting that go on under his nose? I know he’s timid, but he must know that George is taking advantage!”

“I think he does know, Emily,” York said slowly. “Thomas told me that he’s involved with George as well. I’m not sure of the mechanics of it.”

“Thomas as well?” Emily cried out. York glanced around to make sure no-one in the largely empty diner was listening in on them. There were a few people sitting eating on the other side of the room, and Nick could be heard turning pans in the kitchen, but no-one seemed interested in their conversation.

“It seems that way,” York said delicately. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

“God…” Emily said. “Thomas and Carol… with George. He’s really abusing his power.” Emily shifted uncomfortably in her seat for a moment and York knew he wasn’t going to enjoy hearing what she was about to say. “When I first came here from Seattle…” she began. “I was sixteen. And I met George not long after we moved. There was this time, just after we met, when he suggested we go out.” She laughed awkwardly, trying to turn the unpleasant memory into a joke when it clearly wasn’t. York didn’t laugh along. “Well… I thought he was joking, or I _decided_ he was joking. But… maybe that’s just who he is.” She mumbled the last part. The revelation was not sitting well with her.

“Try not to think about that,” York said. “I brought this up because it might be relevant to the case in ways we can’t yet see, and I, well, I did promise I’d share everything with you, no matter who it concerned.”

“I appreciate that,” Emily said. “At least someone in my life is trustworthy.” She smiled at York with a real warmth that spread to him instantly. He felt a rush go through him, like diving into a cold pool. That first momentary shock and then the pure, high feeling when you get used to the water. Like leaving your body for a few brief seconds. He almost forgot he was looking at Emily at all. She was all around him, her smile reflected back from hundreds of previously invisible mirrors. He wasn’t looking at Emily, because there was nothing but Emily. She was everything.

“Thank you,” he said at last, in a softer voice than he intended.

In the background, the door of the diner opened. York was only just able to drag his attention back to reality to look over and see who it was. Olivia. Her hair was dishevelled and it was clear she had had to re-tie it in a hurry. She had not come straight from her house, that much was obvious. York watched her cross to the kitchen. He heard Nick snapping at her once he realised she was there.

“Really?” Nick said. “You’re going to walk in this late?”

“And where were you last night?” Olivia asked, her voice rising. “Don’t tell me, I know the answer, Nick. I know what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, please!” Nick called back. “As if it’s anything compared to you!” After that, their voices lowered to become inaudible, and the rest of the argument was held in secret. It was another interesting exchange for York to bear in mind. There really was something not right with the Cormacks.

“So…” Emily said, once the kitchen went quiet. “What are you planning on doing today?”

“Ah yes, I had an idea about that,” York said. He thought back to his list. There was one definite point he needed to look into before he could make sense of this murder. “We’re going to see Harry.”

“Harry? Harry Stewart?” Emily asked, frowning. “Why?”

“Because he knows about the legendary Raincoat Killer that we are hunting,” York answered. “And I want to know more. It’s the fastest way to understand our murderer, after all, by getting to know their idol. Don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” Emily said, though she didn’t sound convinced. York had more faith. He remembered that Harry, or Michael, to be technical, had dropped hints at the town meeting. To him, that implied they would be willing to talk. Although he did wonder what kind of games he’d have to play to loosen the lid.

“Are we ready then, Emily?” York asked. He took out some money for their breakfast and tucked it away at the far side of the table. “I can’t do it without you.”

“Well, York, if you insist,” Emily said with a grin. “Let’s see what the old man has to say for himself.”

“For himself, Emily…?” York said and they both snorted at the stupid joke.

♦ ♦ ♦

It turned out to be a long drive over to Harry’s mansion. His driveway was essentially a mountain path and although the view from above was a thing to see, York could definitely understand why there might not be a plethora of visitors.

“So, Emily,” York said. She shifted around in the passenger seat so she could look at him. She’d been staring out the window, lost in thought. Probably still hung up on the news about George. “You mentioned watching a horror movie marathon the other day. I was wondering if you’re a big fan… of movies. In general. Are you?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Emily agreed. “I like watching them. I always thought it was a shame there’s not a movie theatre here in Greenvale. If I ever want to see a new release I have to drive out of town.”

“One advantage of the city life,” York said. She murmured a yes. York cleared his throat, trying to get back to his point. “Have you seen The Wicker Man?” he asked.

“That’s the older one, right?” Emily asked. “With… who is it…”

“Christopher Lee?” York suggested. She nodded. “Yes, he’s very good. The mysterious Lord Summerisle, the mastermind behind a small community with a secret. His performance still gives me chills. The way the islanders all trust him, despite what he tells them to do, there’s something haunting about that. And of course, when the townsfolk all turn on the policeman and force him into the titular wicker man… well, I can barely watch!”

“I wonder why,” Emily said sarcastically. York didn’t notice.

“Why, Emily?” he repeated. “I suppose I related to Sergeant Howie. He was only doing his job, after all. It was… disturbing to watch how the people he was trying to protect turned on him. But that just goes to show you what a charismatic leader can convince people to do. I hope I don’t end up meeting my own Lord Summerisle one of these days.” Emily rolled her eyes. She’d understood perfectly well without the explanation. That said, it was nice being able to talk about something unrelated to the case for a while. It got her mind off things.

“We’re nearly there,” she said. “Harry’s mansion is just round here.”

“Sure,” York said. “So… what other movies do you like, Emily?”

“Hmm? I don’t know, I have lots of favourites,” she said. “I liked Carrie.”

“Carrie! That’s a classic!” York said excitedly. “That poor girl, it’s no wonder she –”

“We’re here,” Emily said, cutting over him. York had barely noticed, but they had indeed pulled up outside the mansion. It was a huge red building that looked like a grand hotel. From behind the looming house, he could hear the crashing of a waterfall. Velvet Falls, if he remembered rightly. As he stopped the car and Emily got out, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that the drive hadn’t been longer. He would have liked to keep talking with her about movies for… well, for hours.

“It’s nothing important, Zach,” York mumbled to himself. “I only wanted her opinion. It’s nothing personal about Emily, just… a good conversation.”

“Are you coming?” Emily asked. He got out of the car and she smirked at him. “Or am I going to have to hear about another killer you feel sympathy for?” she teased.

“Now, Carrie never wanted to be a killer,” York reasoned. “And after what happened with her mother, I’m not surprised things turned so tragic.” He didn’t care if she didn’t agree with his opinion, he was pleased just to be discussing it. 

“Whatever!” Emily laughed. “I’d love to be one of the murderers you brought in. I bet the right sob story and I’d get off scot-free.”

“You’d never kill anyone, Emily, it’s not in your heart,” York said. She scoffed in amusement and the two of them walked up the stairs to the front door together. York knocked as loudly as he could and wondered how on earth anyone inside was supposed to hear him. Still, to his surprise, the door was answered just a short while later.

“Mr. Francis York Morgan. Miss. Emily Wyatt. You can come in, please be quiet.”

“Thank you, Michael,” York said, stepping past him. Michael hovered by the door for a moment then led them forward. York took the time to absorb the interior of the mansion. There were statues scattered about and a large piano sitting in the entrance hall. It was a grand, but impersonal, place. Michael took them through to a room at the end of several hallways that seemed to be a dining hall. There were multiple sets of tables and chairs, despite the fact that, from what he could tell, only two people lived there. He doubted they entertained much, either. There was a single cup of tea sitting on one of the tables, abandoned.

Harry was sitting in his wheelchair facing the large picture window that looked out on the waterfall. The sound alone was much louder than a television turned up high and York wondered how he could stand it. Michael walked swiftly ahead and came to stand by Harry’s side. He turned the chair so that they could all be eye-to-eye, or as close as was possible, considering the circumstances.

“Hello, Harry,” York said. “I came to follow up on what you said at the town meeting. About the legend of the Raincoat Killer. Or should I say, the truth behind it.”

“Hm.” Michael frowned at them. He leant down to listen to the cryptic whispers Harry had for him, then stood to recite the message. “Mr. Stewart is intrigued that you’ve come now, your curiosity can be sated as much as he’ll allow.”

“What does he have to say?” Emily asked unhappily. York could tell she was uncomfortable. She didn’t like Harry, he thought, and being here in his home was unsettling for her. He could understand why. As someone who’d known of the strange man and his mansion since she was a teenager, she was bound to have heard all manner of rumours. Kids told each other all kinds of urban legends. Harry Stewart was the sort of man who invited them in droves.

“It would be wise for you to look back in time, to find the answer to this crime,” Michael said. He sounded a lot like a high schooler reciting their lines for the school play. He just didn’t seem attached to the meaning behind what he was saying, York thought. He really was a mouthpiece. He wondered how much direction Harry gave him on what to say.

“How far back in time?” York asked.

“The Raincoat Killer is not a phantom of legend, understanding that will bring things to an end,” Michael recited. York was very quickly realising he wasn’t as patient as he’d like to be.

“Michael, someone has died,” he said bluntly. “I don’t know which one of you is to blame for this little game you’re playing, but I’d like it to end. Tell me what you know.”

“Ah…” Michael looked immediately to Harry and York knew that getting a straight answer out of him would be like drawing blood from a stone. Even in this rather urgent situation, Harry was still toying with him. York hated to imagine how he had such a hold over his young aide.

“Michael…” Emily said, and his eyes shifted to her. York was impressed. If the two of them could keep his attention for a while, they may be able to stop Harry from interfering and actually get out of this with some information. Although he wasn’t sure how long they could treat the boy like a hacky sack without being stopped.

“Yes…?” Michael asked.

“Just tell us ‘yes’ or ‘no’, all right?” Emily said patiently. She was a saint, York thought, smiling to himself. It was a shame she wasn’t the sheriff, Greenvale would benefit. “Do you know the story of the Raincoat Killer? The local myth?”

“Yes,” Michael said.

“Good!” Emily said. York was impressed she’d managed to get him to answer at all. “But, there’s more to it than just a fairy story, right?”

“Yes,” Michael said again. His unemotional façade seemed to crack slightly, just slightly. For the moment, it was like talking to an actual person.

“So who was the real Raincoat Killer?” Emily asked the question at the heart of things, and Michael hesitated this time before answering.

“The one… on which that story’s based, is a man history has misplaced,” he said at last. Emily and York both tensed in unison. The easy answers were over, then.

“Michael, Harry,” York said sharply. “Tell us the truth.” He was done playing around. Before Michael could say a word, Harry twitched back into life and motioned for him to listen. The usual routine followed, with Michael listening attentively to his next instruction.

“As you were not invited, it is time to leave. You rush ahead, leave time to grieve. So says Mr. Stewart.” Michael gestured towards the way they had come, but York was not entirely ready to let it go. He stepped closer to the two men instead.

“Harry,” he said, looking straight at the old man. “I know what you’re doing here. You’re trying to waste our time. I’m not sure I believe a word you, sorry, Michael, has said. Tell me why I should.”

“Mr. Stewart –” Michael began.

“Can you talk, Harry?” York asked. “For yourself, I mean. Is this farce necessary or is it just for your amusement?” He glared down at the man and Harry tilted his chin up to match his gaze. York balked at being suddenly faced by the dark, empty circles that stood in for eyes in the gas mask. Underneath the plastic, he knew Harry was watching him. But it was like staring into a skull.

“I think the two of you need to get out, this is not something to argue about,” Michael said. York looked for a moment longer into Harry’s blank eyes before acquiescing. He and Emily let Michael lead them to the front door and were not surprised when it was slammed behind them. Whether that was intentional, or just the result of living in such a huge, old building, was unclear.

“So glad we made the trip,” Emily said sarcastically. “I didn’t think Harry would make it easy on us.”

“I wonder why he makes such a fuss,” York chimed in. Emily laughed.

“It’s enough to make you want to cuss!” she added. York grinned back, enjoying the shared moment a little too much.

“I can’t decide about Harry Stewart,” York said. “Whether he’s having fun at our expense or actually has something important to tell us… who can say.”

“We’ll have to find out another day,” Emily said, and they both left the eerie mansion and its owner behind, laughing.


	17. You Won’t Be Happy

Chapter Seventeen. [ You Won’t Be Happy ]

As they were driving back, Emily’s radio began buzzing and George could be heard on the other end. She shot an uncertain look at York as she answered.

“Hello?”

“Emily, glad I caught you,” George said. The softening of his usual blunt, aggressive voice when he spoke to her had taken on an uncomfortable new context. Both Emily and York could feel a palpable unpleasantness seeping out of the radio along with the words. This, York knew, was what always happened when you overturned too many stones. You learnt things you couldn’t forget.

“What do you need, George?” Emily asked.

“Someone was attempting to shoplift at Panda Bear. Wesley called it in. I’ve got them, but with Thomas out today I need help getting them back to the station.” If York was a less trusting person, he might assume George was trying to get Emily away from him on purpose. Not that George would have any reason to be jealous of him, but then he didn’t think George was a man who needed reasons.

“Of course, I’ll be right there,” Emily said, and ended the call. “You don’t mind?” she asked York.

“I think we were done for today anyway,” York said. The next part of their drive was quiet, and the silence was sticky with context. Now that Emily knew a few of George’s bad habits, her urge to work side by side with him was tainted. He wasn’t her old friend anymore. He was a stranger. York wished they could start talking about movies again, but he could feel the distance. They may be in the same car together, but Emily was lost in her own head. He dropped her off outside the gun store, then began again down the road.

It was a few minutes before he realised he wasn’t driving towards town.

“We’ve gone off the map, Zach,” York said. He looked out ahead. The road was familiar. With a slowly building sense of dread, he realised where they were going. A moment later the cemetery came into view. York parked and got out, standing before the gates for a moment to take it in. He had known he would have to come back here sometime soon. He just didn’t realise it would be today.

With a deep breath, York walked through the graveyard, the shack at the top of the hill in his eye line the whole time. When he reached it, he felt a tensing in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face the strange man for a second time.

“Brian?” York called. There was no better way to try and get his attention. He waited. He waited. Nothing. “Maybe it was just a dream, Zach…” York muttered. “It felt like one.” He took out a cigarette and spent a moment trying to light it. It wouldn’t quite go. Eventually the end caught alight and he smiled to himself. When he looked up again Brian was standing a foot in front of him.

“Damn!” York shouted, dropping the cigarette from his lips as he stumbled backwards. Brian stayed where he was, almost perfectly still. York allowed himself a moment to recover from his scare. “Hmm… so,” he said slowly. “You are real.”

“Are all things w-we see… not r-real?” Brian said. York still didn’t like that raspy way he spoke, like he had burnt his throat and never let it heal. Grinding against the wound.

“Not all the things I see,” York said seriously. “Not always.”

“Zach… helps you,” Brian said. The mention of Zach’s name again triggered a jolt of panic in York, but he was determined to brave it. He cleared his throat and hoped his voice would come out strong.

“Brian, who are you?” York asked. “What are you? Are you one of them?”

“You mean… the sh-shadows,” Brian said. His lips twisted into another uneasy smile and York dearly wished he was still trying to make Harry Stewart talk sense. Anything was better than this. Standing here, trusting this man in any way, made every single fibre in his head stop what it was doing and screech at him. Leave, leave, leave. Run, run, run.

“I do,” York said. “I’ve never seen one like you.”

“I am not… we are not… the same. I am… something d-different. Other.” This helpful observation did little to comfort York. It was still just dancing around the truth, dancing around anything.

“You’re just another figment like they are,” he muttered. He was considering leaving, and Brian seemed to sense it, though he would swear he hadn’t moved an inch.

“Th-they told you… not to trust your own eyes,” Brian said. “The figments… are not important… ignore them. They t-told you.” York froze.

“What?” he said quietly.

“They said… don’t trust them… don’t let them get to you… th-there’s nothing… you can’t trust it… York.” Brian’s words refused to settle, like dust in the air. This was crossing a line, and York couldn’t bear to keep listening to it.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked desperately.

“Y-you don’t like… to think about it,” Brian said.

York knew that without being told. He could feel the memory creeping in like a headache, it was already too late to block it out. Why were the chairs always so uncomfortable. That was what he ended up focusing on. His grandparents in the other room. The hard-backed chairs. Don’t let them get to you. That stupid, condescending voice. Do people normally respond to this. The chair is so uncomfortable. Why wasn’t there a cushion. It’s not real. My back hurts from sitting. Don’t trust them. It’s such a sunny day, I wish I was outside. Don’t listen to them. That voice is so patronising, trying to be kind. Such a sunny day. Why can’t I be out there with the others. You have to stop letting them get to you. The chair, it hurts sitting for so long. My grandparents, they’re waiting. They always look so disappointed. But the chair is so uncomfortable. Why do you keep letting them hurt you? Why do you trust them? Block them out! Block them out! All in that voice, that voice that wants to be kind. It just sounds fake. The sun’s streaming through the window. In my eyes. Don’t trust them. Don’t let them get to you. I want to be outside with the other kids. Stop trusting them. Let me go. You have to get past this. Let me out! You need to try! The chair hurts. Don’t let them get to you! I want to go outside! You’re wasting time! My grandparents in the next room. They bring me here. They think it will help. Let me go, the chair is so uncomfortable. Not until you listen. Listen! Listen! You have to stop trusting them. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. Don’t you want to stop this? Won’t you try? York, is it? Just let it go! No, I want to leave, don’t do this! Leave me alone! I hate this! I want to go outside! Well you can’t. Not until you try. You have to block them out. You need to stop this. We’ll try the pills again. That voice. It’s never kind. It’s a trick. Zach is there. Zach is there for me. It’s so bright outside the window. The chair is so uncomfortable. We’ll try them again. It might work this time, but he has to try. He has to want to stop. Stop. Stop! Block it out. But Zach is here. Zach is with me. Zach…

“Zach?” York called out aloud, coming out of the haze of the fantasy. He blinked in the real light of day, not the fabricated yellow sunlight of memory. Brian was still there, looking back at him curiously.

“Zach… is there,” Brian said. “He is… r-real.”

“Is he?” York asked softly. Brian smiled that awful smile at him again.

“As real… as we are,” he answered. York didn’t speak again for several minutes. He was thinking. Eventually, he found something that he was willing to say.

“Brian,” he said slowly. “The Raincoat Killer. Do you know who that is?”

“There are… stories,” Brian answered. This was going to be as useful as his earlier conversation, then. But Brian continued. “Th-the stories… they are… like Zach.”

“What does that mean?” York asked, still wincing every time he heard that name in someone else’s mouth. Especially this one.

“Forgotten… the original… the truth… is f-forgotten,” Brian said. “But it can… be f-found.”

“I just need to know the truth,” York said. “I need to find out who this other Raincoat Killer was, so I can find out who’s been drawing inspiration from their legend. Someone killed Quint Dunn. That’s not a fairy story. He’s dead, and it’s my job to find out who did it.”

“You… y-you will,” Brian said. “But you… will not… be happy.”

“What does that mean?” York asked, his voice rising with frustration and not an insignificant amount of fear. “Of course I’ll be happy! I want to catch the murderer and make them face justice!”

“You will… find your killer,” Brian said again. “But you w-won’t be happy… when you do.”

“Will one person in this town just answer my questions?” York said. Pleaded. He screwed his eyes shut. “I wish I never had to come here. Greenvale, this place, I wish I’d never come here.” There was no answer. York waited a few minutes before he dared to open his eyes. When he did, Brian was gone. He’d disappeared again, gone with the breeze.

“He’s gone again, Zach…” York breathed. He reached for another cigarette, his fingers shaking. The first one sat crushed on the ground by his foot. That felt like years ago. When the thing lit, he began to relax. “I don’t regret coming here,” York said to himself. “I had to come here, to do my job. I don’t regret it.” The wind was rising, he could hear it rustling through the trees. “Greenvale is beautiful,” he went on, speaking with the reassuring tone of an adult to a child. “It’s nice to get some countryside air. And the people are interesting, to say the least. And…” he paused, feeling the weight of the word as it tipped out of his mouth. “Emily. It was good that I got to meet Emily.” He stood silently after that, reflecting on what had happened. The wind grew behind him and he felt a raindrop slide down his cheek. It was no longer time to be outside.

When York was safely back inside his car, he felt like a hand had unclenched from around his throat. He sat for a while, a long while, as the rain slowly came in and started to trickle against the windshield, blurring the view, washing away the outside world. He stayed put for longer than he would admit in the antechamber, listening to the rain. When he felt safe to, he started the car, and let the world come back.


	18. Out Late

Chapter Eighteen. [ Out Late ]

York decided to spend the evening in town. He’d spent the rest of the day laying low at the hotel, and he was finally ready to get out again. The rain had cleared up in the last hour, and as long as he was in Greenvale, he might as well enjoy the local colour. It was nothing like the city, after all.

He drove the long way into town, by the lake. It was beautiful at night. The still, glassy surface a cobalt sheet carrying off into the horizon. No wonder they called it Lake Knowledge, York thought. He could only imagine all the secrets that water knew. As the water was replaced by houses and buildings, he was soon surprised by the wave of sound coming from none other than the Swery 65. Richard Dunn’s bar.

“Well Zach, I suppose our grieving father is feeling better,” York said to himself. He drove towards the bar, intrigued. A moment later he was opening the door.

Inside, the old rock strains of a jukebox were playing. The bar was all done up in wood like the inside of a barn. There were even stalls, though rather than horses they were occupied by dart boards. It looked like fun, and years of carrying a firearm had greatly improved York’s aim. Maybe some other time he might give it a shot. Richard was behind the bar and York decided to see how he was.

“Agent York,” Richard said stiffly when he approached.

“Hello Richard,” York said. “I see you’re feeling better.” Richard fixed him with a stony look.

“My son’s been dead for a week,” Richard said. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not feeling better. But life has to go on. I have to earn a living, so here we are. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, one can’t hurt,” York said. This was what Emily had meant about his insensitivity, he realised. He’d made quite the bad impression.

“I’ll make you a tequila sunrise,” Richard said without waiting for an answer. “It’s our speciality.” He began preparing the drink, and York looked around. The bar was fairly crowded. He assumed the usual clientele had missed it while Richard had kept it closed. Then, he noticed Sallie sitting at the end of the bar. The clothes she was wearing looked like they belonged in the laundry, but he couldn’t blame her for not taking the best care of herself while she was looking after a friend. Or more than a friend, based on what Emily had told him. He went to take the seat next to her.

“Good evening, Sallie,” he said. “Here to support Richard?”

“That’s right,” Sallie said. She was sipping periodically from a glass of wine and York suspected it wasn’t her first. “It’s hard for him, y’know. Opening this place up again. Quint and he… they ran it together. It feels all empty without Quint here. Even I feel that.”

“I’d imagine so,” York said delicately. “You and Richard are close, aren’t you?” Sallie snorted out a quick laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “You’re as bad as Anna, tip-toeing around it. We’re together. We liked each other back in high school, you know, always did. But we just ended up with other people somehow…” She waved her hand in the air. “Look how that turned out though! My husband dead and his wife just gone! Our kids growing up with one parent each, that’s not how it was meant to be. Anna should be his daughter, and Quint should have been my son… that’s the right way. That’s how it was meant to be… we waited too long, too long already.”

“I see,” York said. Whether it was the wine or just plain insensitivity, he couldn’t see why Sallie would choose now to wish that the Dunns and the Grahams had always been one big family. If Quint had been her son, surely now would be the worst time. It was odd. “And where is Anna?” he asked. He remembered Emily telling him that Sallie had been keeping her inside out of fear.

“I need to be here for Richard right now,” Sallie said defensively. “I told her not to be alone. ‘Out in public until I get home’, I said. She wanted to go see Becky, but oh no, I said. I’m not having the two of you hiding out in that house while a killer’s lying in wait. Go somewhere public! That way no-one can hurt you. And she did, she’s a good girl, she listens to me.” She took another drink of her wine and York wondered why Sallie hadn’t just brought her daughter here with her if she was so concerned. But, answering his own question, he realised it might impede her night with Richard. Still, it was probably wise that Anna and Becky weren’t holed up together. He couldn’t imagine anything tempting fate more than two teenage girls in a big empty house while a murderer was loose in town. It was a real slasher movie waiting to happen. It did make him worry about Becky, all alone and unaccounted for. He hoped she would be safe, but even as an FBI agent he couldn’t go over there on nothing more than a vague fear based on horror movie tropes.

“I’m glad,” York said. “I don’t see why we should give the killer any extra opportunities to lash out.”

“What’s that?” Richard asked. He had returned with the cocktail and pushed it across to York who happily took it. “You think there’ll be a second murder?”

“I didn’t say that,” York answered. “But I’d prefer everyone took precautions, just in case.”

“If you’d caught my son’s killer, it wouldn’t matter,” Richard said darkly. He was right, York couldn’t argue. “Do you have any leads? Do you know who did it?” Now York felt a certain sharp pang of guilt. Despite his prickly tone, Richard’s eyes revealed a look of desperation. He just wanted someone to be punished for taking away the person he cared the most about. York couldn’t argue with that, either.

“I’m very sorry, Richard, but not yet,” he said gently. “We will catch them. We will.”

“You can’t promise that,” Richard said, retreating back into his anger. “I’m no fool, I know not every case gets solved. I just want to lay this to rest, in one way or another.”

“I understand that,” York said. Richard nodded and walked away. He probably couldn’t keep thinking about it, let alone talking about it. York drank his cocktail down, appreciating the balance of flavours. It was well-made. He bet the Swery 65 was normally a much more cheerful place to be. It had that feel of a good local bar, the kind you go to where you know the bartender and everyone else there and you can all relax and laugh together. It was a nice image. Of course, Quint was part of that image, and with him gone it really felt like someone had ripped a hole in the picture. York might never have met Quint, but he could imagine the ways in which he’d mattered to people. The role he’d played.

“You will catch the guy, right?” Sallie asked him suddenly.

“What? Oh, yes,” York said. “I have a very high success rate. As long as I’m here, the killer can’t run from justice.”

“Good thing you’re here then,” Sallie said. Her speech was slowly growing more slurred. York felt it might be best to excuse himself now.

“Goodnight, Sallie,” he said. She grunted a quick acknowledgement and he got up from his seat. Outside, his head cleared and he realised he’d been feeling unhappy the whole time he’d been in the bar. Guilt, he assumed. Guilt that he wasn’t any closer to finding the killer than the day he arrived.

“Now Zach, that’s not true,” York thought aloud. “We have eliminated certain people from the investigation. And we know, between the two of us, who we suspect might be involved.” He wondered where that person was tonight. Alone, he expected. Far away from people their crime had hurt. If he was right, of course. But he usually was.

York climbed back into his car. It was still early, but he didn’t want to spend another moment in Richard’s bar with that heavy atmosphere of depression weighing down on him. There was probably only one other place in town open, so he started off in the direction of the Galaxy of Terror. It would be interesting to see Carol and Thomas again. That much was for certain.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Galaxy of Terror was fuller than the last time he’d visited. Carol was on stage, singing, and Thomas was behind the bar. When he saw York, he jumped and almost dropped the bottle he was holding. York approached him carefully. He wasn’t sure what kind of state Thomas was in right now.

“Hello,” York said gently. “Thomas, are you all right?”

“Y-you mean because I called in sick,” Thomas said. Something they both knew hadn’t been true. “Yes, I feel much better.”

“I’m glad,” York said, going through the motions of believing in the lie. It would be easier than going straight to the heart of what had happened. Dredging up that unpleasant conversation they’d had last night. And yet, they would have to go back to it sometime. York still needed to know who Thomas had been talking to on the phone, if nothing else.

“Can I get you anything?” Thomas asked.

“I can’t drink anything else tonight,” York said. “I’ll have something to eat though. What do you serve here?”

“Oh!” Thomas brightened now that the subjects he was sensitive about were off the table. “Well, we have a few seafood dishes, oysters and things, that Carol feels add to the atmosphere of the place, we serve pizza, but my personal favourite are the pancakes. They’re so fluffy! I make them myself.”

“Then I will definitely have a plate of those,” York said cheerfully. If Thomas was making them, they had to be good.

“Great!” Thomas said. “That’s $4.89.” York took out his wallet and handed over the money. “I’ll be back with them soon,” Thomas promised, retreating through a door behind the bar. York couldn’t wait. After the long and rather stressful day, some of Thomas’ cooking was going to really improve things. He smiled to himself.

“You again?” He turned just in time for Carol to blow smoke in his face, making him cough. He’d barely noticed that she’d stopped singing.

“Yes… good evening to you too, Carol,” he said. She glowered back at him, unamused by his presence in her bar. It was a bit extreme, he thought. Then he remembered what he knew about her and George. It seemed like the sort of thing Emily would tell him not to bring up. But she wasn’t here. “Carol, actually, I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

“Yeah? Well I don’t have to answer your questions,” Carol said rudely. York took the time to really look at her. She had on a lot of make-up, but underneath it all he could still see youthful freckles and the dark circles of someone who’d been up too late. She was too young to be involved with George, and too young to realise how bad it was for her. He felt sympathy, the same sympathy he had felt for Thomas. Neither of them deserved to be in this position.

“Carol, I know about what’s happening with you and George,” York said as softly as he could. He already had a feeling this would blow up in his face, but he had to try and say something. He cared. You never knew what you could do if you didn’t at least try.

“Who the fuck told you that?” Carol hissed.

“No-one,” York said. “I figured it out on my own. And I think you deserve better than that.”

“Are you hitting on me?” Carol snarled. York put up his hands defensively.

“No!” he promised. “Not at all! My point is that you deserve to be with someone closer to your own age. Someone who will focus on you, who cares about _you_. Don’t you think you should have a healthier relationship with someone who cares about your needs, above what they want?”

“I know who told you,” Carol said, ignoring his reasoning. “It was Becky. I can’t believe she would… No, I can believe it.”

“Becky?” York asked, confused. “Becky didn’t tell me anything. Does she know about this?”

“Like she didn’t tell you all of it!” Carol scoffed. “This is because her soppy boyfriend died, isn’t it? She thinks she can bring me down with her… well, she can’t. I’m not going to suffer just because she is! She can rot in hell by herself!”

“Carol, what are you talk–” York began, but she marched off as he was mid-sentence. He watched her retreat angrily to her dressing room and slam the door behind her. This kept getting more complicated. Becky being involved was something he hadn’t seen coming.

It was at this moment that Thomas returned with the pancakes.

“Here you are, York!” he announced happily. “Freshly made. I hope you enjoy them!”

“Thomas, if you made them, then I’m sure I shall,” York said, smiling. Thomas turned slightly pink and laughed before claiming he really had to reorder the bottles behind the bar. York let him go and occupy himself with them. He didn’t want to embarrass the man.

As he started on the pancakes, he was thrilled to note that Thomas’ good cooking wasn’t limited to the sheriff’s department. The pancakes were delicious. Fluffy, as Thomas had promised, and warm and delicate. Just perfect. Unbelievable, really. The fact that Thomas didn’t have his own cooking show was a crime worthy of the FBI.

“Um… Agent York?” someone said. They’d spoken quietly and it took York several seconds to drag his attention away from his food. When he did, he saw Anna standing just behind him. So this was the public place Sallie had sent her off to. He should have guessed.

“Yes, Anna, what is it?” he asked. She seemed unhappy. She kept touching her hair, fiddling with it.

“Like, um… I saw you talking with Carol. And I heard… Becky’s name,” Anna said slowly.

“Anna, I wouldn’t worry about it,” York said. She shifted from foot to foot.

“No, but… there’s something, um. I… This is hard,” she sighed. York was now curious.

“Anna? Is there something you need to tell me?” he asked. She nodded, her long hair shaking like a waterfall.

“Yeah…” she sighed. “There is something. Could we talk about it tomorrow?”

“Well, Anna, you can tell me now,” York said. He was eager to know what had her so afflicted.

“No, I mean…” She hesitated, then looked up. Her blue eyes were wide and clouded. Certainly, something was wrong. “I want to tell you tomorrow. At the sheriff’s department.”

“I see,” York said. “Of course, Anna. Come by first thing.” She thanked him and hurried off back to her table. Well, he thought. This was interesting. Carol’s personal life was clearly not as secret as she hoped it to be. But this went beyond just simple gossip. Something darker was going on. Something that had to be addressed in the safety of the police department, rather than tonight in this dark bar.

York looked over at Anna again with curiosity. Tomorrow, he decided, was going to be important.


	19. Interview

Chapter Nineteen. [ Interview ]

York arrived at the sheriff’s department early the next morning with a travel cup full of Polly’s coffee. He had barely slept, and couldn’t wait to hear what this big news Anna had to tell him was. If it was going to help him find his footing with the George problem, he was ready to hear her out. He was earlier than anyone else and had to sit by himself in the conference room for a while, sipping the coffee, waiting. Eventually there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said. The door opened and Anna’s face appeared with the same nervous quality it had had last night. She came and automatically took a seat next to him.

“Hey,” she said. “Hi, Agent York.”

“Hello, Anna,” York said. “Now, I won’t waste your time. I want you to tell me everything you have to say, and I promise to listen.”

“No-one else will… find out, will they?” Anna asked. By that, he assumed she meant ‘will George know what I’ve told you?’

“Of course not, it’s between us,” York promised. She seemed to relax.

“OK,” she began. “Right… So this is about Carol. And the stuff… she does.”

“Right, yes,” York said. He took another sip of coffee and waited.

“Carol and I used to be friends,” she sighed. “Back when she was still at school. I really looked up to her and like, I know Becky did too, kind of. Even if they fell out over Quint. So I tended to… I guess I always wanted her to like me, and to think I was cool too. Cause she was so cool back then.”

“Uh-huh,” York said. He hoped this whole exchange wouldn’t just be limited to teenage gossip. If Anna started telling him about which teachers Carol didn’t like, he might have to ask her to go.

“Oh yeah! One time, the three of us were at the diner and I got us all free shakes which was actually really nice of Olivia to let me do that, and we were talking, and Carol said she thought it was… um… well the word she said was ‘fucking sad’, sorry… that Olivia stayed with Nick. She said it was sad because Nick hadn’t done anything with his life and he was this pathetic guy, and how Olivia clearly used to be super pretty and she just wasted it all getting married young to Nick. It was really embarrassing and I was so worried Olivia would hear and get upset! I mean thankfully she didn’t, but I was so worried! And Carol just did more and more stuff like that lately. She’s getting so mean…”

“Anna, that’s interesting, but –” York tried to stop her.

“But it’s the worst when she’s mean to Becky!” Anna said. “Becky doesn’t deserve that. Even if it’s over Quint and stuff, it’s just super unfair. And that’s why, when… well when Carol…”

“Yes? Go on,” York said, hoping she was reaching her point.

“…When she told us about everything that was happening with her and the sheriff, I… I should have told her to leave us alone. But I couldn’t… cause… I still wanted her to… like me.” Anna finally finished spitting out her confession and York got a feeling from what she was saying that there was something more to her wanting Carol to like her. It felt too similar to the conversation he’d had with Thomas. He thought about Carol, who was still young, wanting to live up to the shadow she projected onto the wall. Wanting to be like Diane Ames. He thought about Carol surrounding herself with people who would see that image. See her as the cool, powerful older woman she wanted to be. Carol, who was weighed down by George’s grip on her ankles finding someone else to grab onto. Someone else to bring down with her. Someone else whose head she could stand on to claw her way out.

“What do you know about the relationship between Carol and George?” York asked. He could hear in his voice an urgency that overrode his kindness.

“Carol started seeing him a while ago,” Anna said. “After she left school, I think. I think he came on to her, cause he knew her through her brother. So they got close and then sometime after that she told me and Becky they were together. It was a secret, though. He might get in trouble cause he was the sheriff and stuff, so he shouldn’t be dating her. But Carol said he loved her and she told us all about it. At first it seemed… kind of cool. Not romantic, but like intense? And sort of dangerous. Um, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” York said. He could imagine that, to someone of Anna’s age, a relationship with an older man seemed exotic and exciting. Rather than inappropriate. Dangerous, indeed.

“Right, yeah,” Anna carried on. “So that was fine… at first. Carol told us about it pretty often, and we always had to promise to keep quiet in case people found out. I did, and I think Becky did too. But some of the stuff Carol told us was kind of… weird? It didn’t feel like the stuff she should be doing, but she said she liked being with him and she always said he loved her and she loved him. I don’t know, I wasn’t really worried… exactly.”

“Go on,” York said. They were getting somewhere now. Anna glanced around nervously. This was probably the first time she’d broken her promise to Carol not to tell anyone, he thought.

“Anyway… Carol started telling us more, about this idea she had, for her bar. I think it was probably the sheriff’s idea. She wanted to get me and Becky to help her plan it, and then –”

“Agent Morgan.”

Anna twitched violently in her seat, and she and York both turned to the door. George had just opened it and was poking his head through. He looked confused by their reaction.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked. Anna turned to York with pleading eyes. He understood her fear. The last person who should know about the conversation they’d been having was George.

“Not in particular,” York said. “Anna was just updating me on Richard Dunn’s state of mind, as he’s a family friend. I thought her opinion would be useful on the matter.” George grunted, disinterested.

“Y-yeah!” Anna said quickly. “I know, like, it might be important to your case, Agent York.”

“This case isn’t just in the hands of the FBI, Anna,” George said roughly. Much to York’s annoyance, he strode into the room and sat down at the table. “As sheriff, I should probably listen in on any information that’s being shared. So I don’t get left out of the loop. You wouldn’t want that, right, Agent Morgan?”

“Not at all, George, please join us,” York said stiffly. “So, Anna, about Richard… you were just telling me how he seems since his tragic loss, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Anna said hesitantly. “Well he and my mom have been friends since high school, so he comes round our house sometimes. And since Quint… well, died, he’s been coming over more because he needs someone to talk to. My mom is happy to help him out, I mean I know he’d do the same for her, and they’re like really old friends at this point. I guess they’ve been friends for like… twenty-five years or something. Wow, that’s so long!”

“Is that all you needed to share, Anna?” George asked.

“Anna, tell me, you’ve just graduated I assume?” York asked quickly. He couldn’t let George interrupt and walk Anna out of the station before she’d finished what she had to say. He had to keep her talking until George got bored and left the room.

“Yeah, I did,” Anna said.

“Any plans for after the summer?” York asked. Anna looked confused for a moment, but her face brightened when she realised it wasn’t a trick question.

“Oh yeah, totally!” she said. “See I’ve been working at the diner for a while now, yeah? And I always save the money I make. So I really want to move out to Seattle and become a professional model!”

“Is this an important use of police time, Agent Morgan?” George scoffed. York ignored him.

“That’s very ambitious!” York said. “Although I suppose you probably have the looks for it, don’t you? I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“Oh my god, thanks!” Anna said, laughing and coming over with a slight blush. “Yeah, my mom told me that it’s like a really tough industry to break into, but I know I can do it. I was the prom queen, actually. And that’s basically just a popularity contest, and so is modelling, so I know I’ll be okay!”

“You have it all planned,” York agreed. “But tell me, won’t your mother be upset to see you go?”

“Oh yeah… I mean, yeah,” Anna admitted. “But it’ll be fine. She wants me to be happy so it’ll be okay and then when I start making loads of money, maybe she can move to Seattle too and we could live in like, next door apartments or something. It’d be so cool. I’d totally pay for all of it with my model money.” York smiled along. She had very simple dreams, he thought. She was exactly how he’d picture a teenage prom queen, from the aspirations of fame and fortune to the bubbly, sweet, but essentially vacant personality. She was a very nice girl. She didn’t deserve to be dumped into George’s mess.

As the conversation was dragged out and he learnt all about modelling in Seattle, and how fun it could be working at the diner, and the time Becky and Anna went for a drive to the city to see a movie on Becky’s birthday, York found himself growing angrier with George. First it was Carol, who may have her rough edges, but who was still a young woman with her life ahead of her. A strong, aggressive girl who acted like she’d got something against everyone in the world, because she was trying to defend a broken part of herself. Then it was Thomas, who was probably the sweetest man York had ever met, and definitely the most delicate. Thomas who loved his sister, and who would probably love anyone who wanted him to. Both of those traits exploited, to hand over not just Thomas’ heart, but his sister too. And now Anna. However she and Becky were involved. They were just teenagers, they deserved a chance to get to know who they were, to live, to do things with their lives. Not end up trapped in this vicious quagmire. Just more victims in a different story, York thought. Not the one he’d come here to solve, but the one he damn well wanted to see through while he was here. No-one should get away with what George was doing.

Eventually, Thomas came to the door and asked for George. His eyes bugged out of his head when he saw Anna sitting there and York was sure that Thomas knew exactly where the conversation had once been going. Thomas was later than usual today, and York would bet he’d considered taking the day off ‘sick’ once again. Still, he appreciated his interruption. George got up and left the room without so much as a goodbye. When he was safely on his way down the corridor, York turned back to Anna.

“Anna, quickly,” he said, “tell me the rest.”

“Okay, okay, yeah,” Anna said. “I think it was Sheriff George’s idea, but I don’t know really, it might have been Carol. She tried to get us to join in this… she said it was like a game, at her bar, after hours. I don’t know, I wasn’t sure. This was only recent. In the end, we agreed… me and Becky. We both said we’d go and see what she meant…”

“Yes, Anna, and what happened next?” York asked urgently.

“Well… Becky…” Anna was clearly struggling with what she was trying to say, and while York appreciated that and felt sorry for her, he couldn’t keep wasting time. There was a chance George might come back and interrupt them again.

“Yes, Anna, come on, what happened?” he asked.

“It was… it was awful, what happened…” Anna said. She was getting emotional, tears beginning to brew in the corners of her eyes. York was about to push her again when the door opened. This time, thankfully, it was Emily.

“York, we need you,” she said.

“Emily, I’m sorry, I’m just speaking with –” he tried to explain, but she cut him off with a grim look in her eye.

“It can’t wait,” Emily said. “There’s a body.”


	20. The Lake

Chapter Twenty. [ The Lake ]

It took a moment for the information to register with York. It seemed fake for a moment, or as if Emily was describing something from a TV show. But then he heard Anna shout out in horror.

“Becky?!” she shouted. “Is it…? It won’t be, right? It won’t be Becky? Oh my god, who is it?!” Emily looked at Anna with an expression of immense regret. Anna turned her head, distraught, from York to Emily, waiting for an answer. York could see the tears now, running down her cheeks.

“Emily, do we know if it was… Becky?” he asked frantically. Just a no would be enough.

“We… we don’t know,” Emily sighed.

“This is Carol!” Anna cried out. “Carol and… him… they did this! They did this to Becky…! Oh my god, they hurt Quint too, didn’t they? Didn’t they?”

“Emily, is Thomas still here?” York asked. “Can he drive Anna home?” Emily nodded and left to go find him. York took off his jacket and wrapped it around Anna’s shoulders. She pulled it around her protectively and cried into her hand. “It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “It won’t be Becky. It won’t be.” A part of him remembered his thought last night, about Becky sitting all alone in her big, empty house. Like a sitting duck. He hoped that wasn’t going to come back to haunt him.

A few minutes later, Thomas and Emily returned and between them led the weeping Anna to Thomas’ waiting car. She handed York back his jacket as she got into the backseat.

“Call Becky as soon as you get home,” York instructed her. “You’ll see she’s safe.” Anna nodded blindly and hugged herself tight. Thomas looked sadly at York and climbed into the driver’s seat. York hoped he was right. Becky and Anna had both been through enough for one week. One week, he thought. It really had been just a week since Quint died.

“George has already left,” Emily told him when Thomas’ car was out of sight. “He wants us to follow as soon as possible.”

“Of course, let’s get moving,” York said, already walking towards the police cruiser. “But Emily… what did you mean when you said you didn’t know who it was?”

“You’re going to have to see for yourself,” she said. York did not care for the foreboding nature of her statement.

♦ ♦ ♦

Emily instructed him to drive along the shore of Lake Knowledge. As they got closer to where they were going, he realised they were fairly close to Becky’s house. His heart sank. No wonder Emily hadn’t wanted to be held to any promises. When he saw George standing by the lake surface, he pulled up the car.

“Agent Morgan, Emily, you’ve arrived,” George said bluntly when they reached him. He was standing looking out at the lake. York got the impression that even he was shaken by what they’d found. As York turned his head to take in the scene, he saw Ushah, kneeling down on the ground.

“He got here fast,” York said. George shook his head.

“Ushah called it in,” he corrected. York looked over sharply. “He lives around here,” George added. “One of the houses in those cul-de-sacs just off the main road. He saw… well, why don’t you talk to him about it. You’re the FBI agent.” So George still didn’t want to be friends, York thought. Well at this point, he was glad.

“Ushah,” York said as he approached the man, Emily following. Ushah got quickly to his feet. He was clearly unsettled by the experience. Even as a mortician, York thought. He guessed that didn’t prepare you for finding a body out in the wild, all by yourself.

“Agent York,” Ushah acknowledged. “Emily. You know what I found.”

“Largely,” York said, “but I need to hear the full story.” Ushah nodded, his face greyer than it should be. York doubted he would sleep easy tonight.

“All right,” Ushah said. “I was at work when I realised I forgot something at home. Er, what was it, it seems… ages ago now. Oh right, my badge. It was a quiet morning, so I was driving home to get it, when I saw a car.”

“A car?” York asked. “On the road?” If that was all it took to start the doctor worrying, he’d have to make sure to avoid a check-up while he was in town.

“No…” Ushah said, shaking his head slightly. “It looked like it was jutting into the lake and, hey, I worried about the driver, so I got out to check it out.”

“What happened then?” Emily asked.

“Er…” Ushah started. “Well there was no-one in the car. I thought someone might have been injured and climbed out, so I tried to look, and that’s when I found… the body.”

“Where is the body?” York asked. Ushah gestured with his head. They followed him around an outcropping of bushes to a muddy bank. The car was immediately obvious, parked awkwardly with its front tires in the water. Not the action of someone with time to spare. A second later, he saw the body.

It was lying face down in the water, mostly submerged. The back of the head was all he could really make out, the hair lapping at the shore, trying to return, perhaps, to land.

“Ushah… if George has taken photos, can you please pull it out,” York asked. It was convenient, he supposed, that the mortician had found the body. It spared them calling him up. Ushah hesitantly ducked down onto his knees to do as he was asked. Emily turned her head the moment the first sound of mud shifting could be heard, burying her face in York’s shoulder. Although he didn’t want to admit it, at a time like this, York smiled slightly.

“It smells… the water…” Emily murmured, disturbed. York couldn’t disagree. He just had more experience. Thankfully, the smell of the mud was almost overpowering. Ushah successfully pulled the body from its temporary grave and onto the shore. He shuddered, the motion carrying from his shoulders through his whole body. York hoped there were no medical emergencies in Greenvale today. The doctor was going to need some time to clear his head.

“Turn it over,” York requested. Ushah took a moment to collect himself, then did as he was asked. He carefully shifted the body around and onto its back. It made little difference.

The face was all but gone.

“Oh god… how could anyone…?” Emily mumbled. York said nothing, but he rested a comforting hand on her shoulder for a moment before pressing on. He bent down to inspect the corpse.

It was a woman, that much was obvious, and her hair had been brown. Her face had been carved up with a knife, a similar one to the one they’d found still embedded in Quint’s chest. York wouldn’t be surprised if this one had been tossed into the lake along with the body, too. The wounds to the face, dramatic as they had been, had only been made worse by the mud and the water. It was surprising, York thought, that some effort had been made to obscure this woman’s identity when Quint had been handed to them on a silver platter. Perhaps there was some difference to the murders he wasn’t yet seeing, but he was sure of one thing. It was the same killer.

“You’ll do a full autopsy? Today,” York said. Ushah half-heartedly agreed. York knew it might be troubling for him, but he needed results as soon as possible. “Check the stomach contents as well,” he added. If there were more of those red seeds, he wanted to know about them.

“God…” Emily said again, tapping her cheek to try and wake herself up from the shock. “A second murder, like this… I thought it was over. I thought we’d catch them and punish them, but… I never thought they’d kill again. Or, I hoped. I guess it was just… hope.”

“We’ll have to identify them first, Emily,” York said. She shook her head and let out a long, slow sigh. Finally, she had returned to reality, waking from denial straight into the nightmare.

“I have a pretty good idea who this is,” she said.

“How?” York asked.

“The car,” Emily said. “I recognise it. It’s Carol’s.”

“It’s… Carol?!” York asked in surprise. He looked down at the faceless body again. If it was her, then all the rough edges of her personality had finally been rubbed out, washed away by the lake. It was a shame, a terrible shame, York thought, that it had taken this to soften her up.

♦ ♦ ♦

The body went with Ushah to the morgue for an immediate autopsy, and York and Emily returned to the sheriff’s department. George claimed he had to return home to collect paperwork, but both Emily and York could tell that he was shaken by the discovery of Carol’s body. Maybe he had some small well of affection for her after all, York thought. It was a shame he’d chosen to abuse it while she was alive. Either way, they let him go home. It didn’t matter what he did, really. They would be the ones actually handling this case, considering George’s less than professional involvement. If he didn’t fight them on it, they wouldn’t have to make it official.

When they got back to the department and walked inside, they found Thomas standing in the hallway.

“I took Anna home,” he said. “Her mother said she’d look after her, and she’s going to call Becky.” He winced. “It wasn’t Becky… was it? I know Ushah sounded mixed up on the phone.”

“T-Thomas…” Emily whispered. Thomas looked back at her nervously.

“It… was?” he asked in a small voice.

“Thomas, let’s talk about it in the conference room,” York suggested. Thomas agreed, but he was clearly worried. For all the wrong reasons, York thought. When they had him sitting down, York began. “Thomas,” he repeated. “We can’t be certain yet, but we do have a good idea who the body belongs to.”

“Who?” Thomas asked. He covered his mouth with his hand in anticipation. This was going to hurt, York thought. Hurt badly. Worse than anything before.

“We believe it’s Carol,” York said quietly. Thomas was silent for almost a whole minute.

“It isn’t,” he said. “No, it isn’t.”

“Thomas, her car was at the scene,” Emily said gently, as gentle as it was possible to be. Her voice wouldn’t have disturbed a feather. “Have you seen her this morning?”

“N-no, but I came straight to work, from home,” Thomas said desperately. “I don’t always see her in the mornings. She sleeps late, usually, after staying up late at her bar.”

“Thomas… you need to prepare yourself for the worst,” York said carefully. “The aut– Ushah is doing what he can now. But this is probably going to turn out… the way we expect.”

“No!” Thomas shouted. His face twisted angrily, bitterly. “I’ll call her!” he snapped. He got up at once from the table and marched through to reception where a phone waited. York followed him, Emily didn’t. York understood. Thomas was her friend. She didn’t want to watch him realise all hope was lost.

Thomas dialled and waited, the receiver glued to his head. With every unanswered ring, York saw his face fall a little more. After a while he hung up and redialled. And when there was still no answer, he slumped onto the floor, staring dead ahead, silent.

“Thomas?” York tried. Thomas said nothing. There was a long moment where he tried to push it back, that wave of hopelessness. And then it broke. All at once he was crying; heavy, angry sobs that shook his whole body, wet tears smeared all over his face as he wiped at them with his hands. His breath kept catching and sticking, jerkily, like he was suffering an asthma attack. York normally prided himself on being strong. Logical, rather than emotional. But this he couldn’t bear. He got down on the floor beside Thomas and pulled the other man into a hug, letting him weep into his neck, ignoring the tears that pooled against his skin.

“I’m so sorry, Thomas,” York said, choked. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know how long they were there. Thomas seemed to cry until there wasn’t an ounce of fluid left in his body. York barely realised when Emily came to find them, to bring them back to the conference room to sit down. The next thing he knew, there was a cup of coffee in front of him and he was back in one of the stiff office chairs, Thomas beside him. Emily had wrapped an old blanket around Thomas’ shoulders and he was staring blankly at his own cup of coffee, not touching it.

York took a sip and was surprised and mildly horrified to find he was now drinking the worst coffee of his life. Emily may be a good police officer, but she couldn’t brew a pot of coffee to save her life. Still, it was good to have something hot for the shock. He hoped Thomas would drink some.

Eventually a call came in which Emily went to answer. She returned to let York know that Ushah was ready for them at the hospital. Her eyes fell on Thomas and she stiffly added that he would need to join them. To identify the body. The memory of the carved, broken face returned to York. He would not wish to put anyone through that. But there was no other option.

“All right,” York sighed. “Let’s all go to the hospital.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Thomas stood numbly in the corridor, just outside the morgue, as they decided what to do. Emily held him by the shoulders supportively, and looked to York.

“I’ll go in and speak with Ushah,” York said. “Thomas, Emily. Wait here for now.” Emily agreed without a fuss. No-one was looking forward to making Thomas face the inevitable. York opened the door and walked into the morgue. Ushah was standing beside the gurney, the body covered by a sheet. There was still a vague damp smell that wouldn’t leave, but York tried hard to ignore it.

“Agent York,” Ushah said grimly. “I have the results.”

“I assume one of those wounds was fatal?” York asked.

“No,” Ushah said, surprising him. “She was strangled. These wounds happened after death.”

“Ah…” York thought for a moment. The wounds were superficial, despite the violence of the attack. They were either left behind by a killer in a fury, or they were just for show. For him. “All right. And the stomach, did you find any evidence of –”

“Those weird red seeds? Yeah I did,” Ushah finished for him. “Definitely some. I’m not really… an expert, my experience hasn’t usually extended to conducting autopsies. I’d say these were eaten slightly before death, though, there’s a hint of digestion. I could be wrong.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Ushah,” York said. “So… she was strangled to death, then stabbed, then dumped in the lake. The killer probably wanted her to sink, but leaving the car there makes it seem like they were rushed.” He furrowed his brow. “Carol’s car… but they obscured her face. Did they intend to drive away with it afterwards…?”

“Well that isn’t my area,” Ushah said, laughing humourlessly. It failed to lighten the mood. “But as for the identification… I could believe this was Carol MacLaine. The height and hair colour seem right. I kept her personal belongings for Thomas to look at. It’ll be easier that way. He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have to see her like this.”

“We agree on that,” York said gravely. “I’ll bring him in, get them ready.” He stepped back into the corridor where Emily looked at him to see what was happening next.

“Is she…” Thomas mumbled, his throat raw from crying.

“You don’t have to see the body, Thomas,” York said softly. “You can identify her from her belongings. Is that all right?” Thomas nodded stiffly, and York took him from Emily and led him into the room. Ushah was waiting.

“Thomas,” he said. “I’m… I’m so sorry, god.” Thomas said nothing. He walked up to the doctor mechanically and waited, his eyes barely focusing behind his glasses.

“Ushah,” York pressed, trying to move things along. He wanted to see Thomas at home and in bed as soon as possible. Ushah jumped to it.

“I have her… the jacket, they were wearing, here,” Ushah said. “And the jeans, and the boots. If you… if you’re ready, Thomas.” He had laid the clothes out on a table in the corner. They were still heavy with mud, and spread out in a rigid mockery of a human outline. It was almost like Carol was still wearing them, and had just turned invisible. Thomas looked at the arrangement for only a few moments.

“It is…” he said, choking on the words as he tried to say them. “It’s her… yes, it’s her clothes, it is. God, it is! It is! Carol, she… Carol!” The last word was barely audible apart from the sobs that followed. In his moment of weakness, Thomas slipped forward and ended up clutching at Ushah’s coat while the other man rushed to hold him up. Thomas immediately wrapped his arms around Ushah and began to cry into his chest. York and Ushah locked eyes for a moment, and York felt it was appropriate to leave the room.

“Was it her?” Emily asked the second he reappeared. York nodded. “Oh, Thomas…” Emily said in a soft, broken voice.

“I can’t imagine what this must be like for him,” York said. “I’ve never had a sibling. Not… well, no, not ever.” Emily numbly nodded along with what he was saying, but her head was elsewhere. “We’ll take Thomas home when he’s ready. Is there anyone we can call for him?”

“His mother moved out of state a while ago, I think,” Emily said. “I think that’s what he told me. No other family, as far as I know. He doesn’t socialise much, the only close friend he really has, is…”

“George,” York finished. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Emily agreed. A minute later, Ushah stuck his head around the door. The sound of Thomas whining softly could be heard.

“I think… if it’s okay with the two of you,” Ushah said. “I can put Thomas in a bed here for now. The hospital’s so big, it won’t matter. I can keep an eye on him.”

“Ushah, that would be amazing!” Emily sighed with relief. “Yes, please. Call us if you need anything.”

“Sure, I will,” Ushah said, smiling with effort. He returned to Thomas, shutting the door behind him.

“That’s something at least,” Emily said. Her eyes were misty, and he knew that if she wasn’t as strong as she was, she’d be crying too. “I mean… it’s really only a tiny silver lining, on a mountain of shit. But it’s something.”

“I agree,” York said. He was still reeling from the news himself, and he’d only come to Greenvale a week ago. He barely knew these people. And yet he already felt close, to Thomas, to Emily. He even felt a pull in his heart for Carol, who had made her mistakes in life, but who had not deserved to be mutilated beyond recognition and dumped in a lake like she was nothing. This case was unlike any he’d been involved with before. There was more at play here. He felt connections to this town, to the people, that were unique.

He only hoped he could stop the killer before they damaged this community any more than they already had.


	21. Witness

Chapter Twenty-One. [ Witness ]

When Emily and York returned to the sheriff’s department, they found someone waiting for them. York recognised her as the old woman he’d met at the town meeting. She was still clutching a cooking pot in her hands.

“Sigourney?” Emily sighed. “Let me take you home, you’ve wandered a long way.”

“No!” the woman complained. She got up from her seat and approached them. “I need to talk with the sheriff. Where’s the sheriff?”

“The sheriff isn’t here, he’s… ill,” Emily explained. “Let me drive you home.”

“I saw something… when my pot and I were out there by the lake. The sheriff will want to know,” she said smugly. Emily glanced uncertainly at York.

“Why don’t you come through to the conference room, Sigourney,” York said. “We can listen and tell the sheriff when he comes back.” The three of them walked through to the other room. York was torn. On the one hand, he was desperate for a lead to follow and a witness statement would be just that. On the other, he got the feeling from Emily and the fact that this woman was only wearing one shoe that she may not be the most reliable witness there was.

“I saw it. At the lake,” Sigourney announced again as soon as they were sitting down.

“What did you see?” Emily asked. “And when was this?”

“The sheriff was there,” Sigourney said, distracted. “I saw him. And that doctor from the hospital. They were both there.” Emily and York glanced at each other and exchanged a mutual feeling of exasperation. If this was all she’d seen, it was basically a social visit to remind the sheriff she existed.

“Yes, and…?” York asked.

“They must have been looking for something,” Sigourney carried on. “Well, I saw something. I know the sheriff will want to hear it.”

“What did you see?” Emily asked with a weary look on her face.

“They drove a car up to the water,” Sigourney said, and both York and Emily started paying attention. “I was outside. Half nine or so… I like to walk around there… the water is so nice. But it gets cold, I have to be careful my pot doesn’t get cold. That would be bad, it mustn’t happen!”

“Sigourney, what happened with the car? Did you see the driver?” Emily pressed.

“I saw the car drive up…” Sigourney said. “All you young people these days, you’re all monsters! Driving a car that fast! It’s no wonder they went into the lake, is it? Well, it serves them right!”

“Yes, we all drive too fast, and our music is too loud,” York said sarcastically. “Did you see the driver?” They were close. So close to a lead. She just had to say yes.

“Driver?” Sigourney asked, momentarily losing the thread of the conversation. “Oh that driver, they should be banned from the roads. People just don’t think. Some of us like to walk around our neighbourhood, remember how things were before all these cars started buzzing around. Back then people knew how to be responsible. They’d stop their car and let a lady cross the street. Why, that car couldn’t have stopped if it needed to. No, no… I thought to myself that if they’d hurt themselves in the car then they would have to pick themselves up again. It’s nothing to do with me, I thought. I didn’t tell them to drive that fast.”

“We know, Sigourney, but what happened next?” Emily asked. York marvelled at her patience. He supposed she was used to dealing with the old woman from time to time.

“Well, my pot wanted to see the flowerbeds…” Sigourney explained. “So we went down by the houses. But he’s allergic, he was, so we had to leave. This old pot still remembers what that used to be like!” She stopped and laughed to herself. York wondered who she was talking about. A dead husband, perhaps? Whoever it was, a cooking pot wasn’t a good replacement. Even if she didn’t seem to mind. “When I was walking by the lake again I saw someone, running. Running away from that car they ruined, I expect! Guilty and irresponsible! That’s how everyone is these days.”

“What did they look like?” Emily asked excitedly. York shared the feeling. Someone had actually seen their killer, running from the scene of the crime.

“Oh, that,” Sigourney scoffed, demonstrating an impressive lack of awareness when it came to why they were questioning her at all. “Who knows. They had one of those black hooded jackets pulled up over their head. Little slip of a thing, I thought, but they were already running away when I saw them and my eyes aren’t quite as good as they used to be. It could have been anyone, anyone at all.”

“Thank you, Sigourney,” York said, though his heart sank. The information was useful, certainly, but not what he had hoped for.

“The sheriff will want to know,” Sigourney repeated again. “He’ll want to arrest them for driving that car recklessly like that! In a nice, quiet neighbourhood like mine! The sheriff is a good man, he’ll stop it. I knew his mother, you know. Lovely girl. But so troubled.”

“Thank you for that,” York said, repressing the urge to sigh. George’s mother was the least of his concerns. As were the reminisces of an old woman carrying a cooking pot around for comfort. “We’ll tell the sheriff as soon as he comes in.”

“You will, won’t you? Oh, he has to stop people from driving around like mad things!” Sigourney insisted.

“We promise,” Emily lied. Sigourney believed her, smiling.

“Thank you, dear girl. You’re one of the good ones, aren’t you? Not like so many of the people in this town…” Sigourney trailed off again, lost in memory and thought. Emily led her from the room, promising aloud to drive her home. It gave a York a while alone to think. He lit a cigarette right away.

“Well, Zach, it seems we’ve made a mistake…” York sighed. “We let someone else die. Carol, Thomas’ sister. She’ll never warm up to us now…” He shook his head and blew a trail of smoke into the air. How appropriate, considering who he was talking about. “Of course, when I realised it was Carol who had died, I suspected George. Don’t get me wrong. I still don’t see any reason he would have killed Quint, but it felt too obvious. A jealous lover? It’s a cliché. Naturally he’d be my pick for Carol’s murderer. But if Sigourney’s right, the killer dumped the body in the lake while George was with me. The two of us were talking to Anna right here in this very room. It’s impossible for him to have done it. I suppose that’s at least one point in the sheriff’s favour, don’t you think so, Zach? It’s a shame there aren’t more. Not being a murderer isn’t a very high bar.”

He took a moment to smoke and let things settle in his mind.

“When we saw Carol last, what was it she said?” York asked aloud. “She thought Becky told us about her and George. She seemed pretty angry, Zach. Clearly Becky knows some things she shouldn’t, but what worries me is how she fits into this morning’s discovery. She lives close to where we found the body. Anna thought it was her, and I can see why. If you’d asked me earlier whether it would be Carol or Becky in the morgue, after last night, I know who I would have chosen.”

When Emily returned, York was ready to go.

“You know where we’re going next?” Emily asked, a little shocked he was back to his old self so fast. The weight of what had happened, and especially Thomas’ breakdown, was still heavy in her.

“We need to speak with Becky,” York explained. “That’s where we’re going next.” Emily nodded. She had had the same thought.

♦ ♦ ♦

Neither of them spoke much on the drive over to Becky’s house. There were a couple of mumbled exchanges about Thomas, and how hard this must be for him, but not much. The silence as they drove past Carol’s car, still abandoned in the mud of the lake shore, was deafening. When they got to the mansion, it seemed the same as ever. The curtains were still drawn in all the windows, and the air of mourning was still strong. York had to remind himself that it had still only been a week since her boyfriend had been killed. It felt much longer, considering all that had happened in the past 24 hours.

“Emily,” York said suddenly as they got out of the car. “I need to tell you this before we go in. Becky knew about the relationship between George and Carol. Carol seemed to think she was the one who’d told me about it.”

“Carol thought…” Emily gasped. “Wait, you spoke to Carol about this? Before she died?!”

“Yes, last night,” York explained. Emily sighed in dismay and rolled her eyes at him. He knew she wouldn’t have approved. “The important thing now, is that Becky is a crucial witness and should be treated as such. She knows things about Carol that I feel are directly related to her death.”

“All right… fine,” Emily sighed. “I’ll keep it in mind. Let’s go.” She knocked hard on the door and they waited. They were standing there for a while, and Emily had to knock again, and again. York began to feel uncertain. He was considering breaking down the door, when it finally opened.

“What…?” Becky was there, pasty and tired looking as before. Although York thought she at least looked like she’d showered since Quint’s death now.

“Becky?” York said softly. “We have to come in. It’s important. No games.” Becky seemed to realise he was serious. She opened the door all the way without a word and led them through to her bedroom like the last time. She sat down on the sofa and York sat opposite, Emily beside him. Becky stared down at the floor and waited.

“Becky, did Anna call you this morning?” Emily asked. Becky nodded. “Did she tell you what happened?”

“No…” Becky said in a small voice. “She didn’t know what happened, she just said she was glad I was all right. Like she was really worried.”

“She was worried about you because the police found a body this morning,” York said. “Someone else was killed. Do you know who it was?” Becky hugged her knees tightly.

“How would I know…?” she asked. “It doesn’t matter… Quint’s already dead. Anna’s safe. It doesn’t matter who it was.”

“Not even if it was your sister?” York asked. Emily shot him a frown. He’d spoken more sharply than he’d intended. Becky said nothing, she didn’t move. “Hmm…” York carried on. “It was Carol MacLaine. I’m afraid she’s dead.”

“Carol?” Becky said, looking up for the first time. “Yeah, right. She died?”

“She was murdered,” York said carefully. “We’re fairly certain the same person who killed Quint killed her too. Tell me Becky, when did you last see Carol?”

“When did I… last see her?” Becky said slowly. She dropped her head back to the floor. “I saw her this morning.” Emily let out a low gasp.

“This morning, Becky? When?” she asked. Becky shrugged her shoulders without looking up.

“I dunno… like eight or something,” Becky said. “I think it was like eight. She like… woke me up, knocking on the door.”

“Carol came over here to see you, early in the morning?” Emily asked in amazement. “Why?”

“To start a fight!” Becky moaned. “She was super pissed with me and she wanted to start something over it! I wouldn’t let her in the house, I had the chain on the door. She was going nuts at me, okay? I just wanted her to leave! When I wouldn’t let her in, she went off.”

“Was she in her car?” Emily asked.

“Yeah? I… I think so,” Becky agreed. “I think it was parked outside, but I dunno for sure. Yeah, I think I heard her drive off afterwards.”

“Interesting,” York said, frowning. Becky had last seen Carol alive at eight that morning, and Sigourney had claimed to see someone driving Carol’s car to the lake at half nine. That gave them a fairly small window of time in which Carol’s murder had taken place. Sigourney hadn’t seen what transpired when the killer had actually reached their destination. Whether Carol had been killed at the lake or not was unclear. Another secret for Lake Knowledge to wash away, he thought wistfully.

“I didn’t do anything, just cause we were arguing,” Becky said. “I didn’t even let her in the house.”

“We know, Becky,” Emily said quickly. Not in quite her usual warm way, York thought. “It’s not your fault she died. You’re not in trouble just because you had a fight with her.”

“Good!” Becky said, her voice rising. “She was awful! I still can’t believe she came over here to start a fight with me, like anything that happened was ever my fault! It was always her, always her. She started everything…”

“At least you don’t need to worry about that now,” York said abruptly. Carol may not have been a good person, but she was dead. He didn’t appreciate Becky’s lack of respect for that fact. Not after seeing what Carol’s death had done to Thomas, certainly.

“Please…” Becky moaned. “It’s Carol. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still planning something, even now. That was her way. Nothing could stop her. I bet she’s still got it in for me, even in death.” She put her head in her hands and began rocking back and forth, whining quietly to herself.

“All right, Becky. We’ll talk to you again if we need to know anything else,” York said, and began ushering Emily towards the door. When they were outside, Emily shivered.

“God,” she said. “That was unpleasant.” She turned to York with a frown. “Shouldn’t we ask Becky more about the argument she had with Carol? She was the last person to see her alive. I just feel…”

“No, not yet,” York said dismissively. “After all, there was no reason for her to admit that. We weren’t exactly grilling her. She told us of her own free will, so for now I’d like to leave it. Becky is still very emotionally fragile, and we have to be careful with her.”

“York,” Emily said suddenly. “You don’t think that George… that he might have done this, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” York said. “He can’t have done. Becky saw Carol alive at 8am this morning, and that was only about ten minutes before George came in to interrupt my meeting with Anna. He’d have to be some kind of superhuman to kill her in that timeframe. No… in this instance, George is innocent.”

“In this instance,” Emily repeated. They were both thinking the same thing. If George hadn’t done what he’d done, there was a good chance Carol would still be alive. Innocent was just not a word that could honestly be applied to him. And they weren’t likely to forget it.


	22. Food Run

Chapter Twenty-Two. [ Food Run ]

With everything weighing on his mind, York decided he’d earnt the right to something to eat. He parted ways with Emily at the sheriff’s department and walked over to the A&G diner. For the next half an hour, no-one was dead. No-one was hurt. It would just be him and a plate of food. Thank god for that expenses account.

As he walked through the door of the diner, he saw that there was some domestic drama unfolding. Anna, dressed in her waitress uniform, was having an argument with her mother in the middle of the place. He decided to stay and watch. After all, walking past a soap opera was bound to lighten his mood. It was good to remember some people kept on living.

“But it’s my job!” Anna shouted. “I can’t just leave!”

“You will do what you’re told, Anna, I’m not playing around!” Sallie shouted back. “Two goddamn dead teenagers, and you’re not gonna be next! I need you!”

“Is that what it’s really about?” Anna snapped. “Not that I might die, it’s that _you_ can’t live without me! What about when I go to Seattle, mom? What happens then?”

“You’re not fucking going anywhere! You’re coming home with me, and you’re staying put until they catch this bastard, do you hear me? You think you know everything, Anna, you’re just a child!” Sallie accompanied her speech with a lunge towards Anna’s wrist, trying to grab her. Anna snatched her hand out of the way, but Sallie grabbed her arm and began marching her towards the exit.

“I have work tomorrow! I have a shift!” Anna protested, in vain.

“Not now you don’t,” Sallie snapped. When she reached the door she glared at York and he had only a second to jump out of the way before she pushed past him, dragging her daughter off home. York felt he probably wouldn’t be seeing Anna again for a while. And if Sallie had her way, neither would anyone else. At least she would be safe, he hoped.

“I’m so sorry…” Olivia said, as she rushed up to him. “We just… Anna… well, it’s been a very dramatic day! Oh! You know that, of course… it’s been harder for you, we’re just… I mean, I’m only in charge of this diner, for you, it must be, well…” York smiled, warmed by her apologies.

“That’s quite unnecessary, Olivia,” he said. “I understand completely.” She smiled back at him with residual embarrassment. He went to sit down and she followed to take his order.

“Would you like a turkey sandwich?” she asked. “They’re especially good today. I think! Personally.”

“Yes, that would be good,” he said. “A turkey sandwich and some coffee, if you don’t mind, Olivia.” As she was about to walk away, York noticed an ugly bruise on the edge of her collarbone. “Wait, Olivia,” he said quickly and she stopped, looking at him with her typical worried expression.

“Do you want something else…?” she asked.

“How did you hurt yourself?” he asked. She stared at him blankly for a second, then instinctively slapped a hand over the offending mark. Her eyes widened.

“I didn’t!” she said. “What I mean is… I mean that it was an accident in the kitchen, nothing serious. It’ll heal soon. It doesn’t hurt!” She walked swiftly away and York stared with concern and suspicion as she went into the kitchen. Nick was standing at the grill and she avoided making eye contact with him. York hoped he wouldn’t have to bring the chef in for marital issues amid the murder case. Not least because the man’s sandwiches were very good. It would be like arresting Thomas.

After taking some time to enjoy his meal and refresh himself with a cup of hot coffee, York left the diner. He had successfully cleared his head and was ready to get back to the investigation. He was still short on leads, of course, but he had a few areas of interest he wanted to pursue. And for that, he would need two things. Time. And snacks. Which meant his first stop was going to be the Milk Barn.

♦ ♦ ♦

York took a moment to marvel at a poster on the wall advertising Keith’s guitar playing, along with a number of other acts, for a night at the community centre. Either Keith was an undiscovered legend, or Greenvale didn’t get much attention from touring bands. He imagined it was the latter. The ticket price was too steep for him. Still, he was glad to see the town occasionally came together for more than just mourning. When he’d got his fill of the poster, he went to find the real Keith. He was behind the counter, humming to himself and nodding along to whatever song he thought he was listening to.

“Hello, Keith,” York said and Keith glanced his way.

“Oh, hey FBI!” he said. “Can I get you anything?” His face suddenly darkened as if only at that moment did he remember the news. “Man, I heard about Carol. That’s messed up, it’s so messed up, FBI. I’m starting to think Becky will never come back to work, what with all her friends kicking the bucket like this…”

“I don’t think Carol and Becky were exactly friends,” York corrected. Keith didn’t seem to absorb what he’d said, nodding silently for a moment instead.

“Yeah, man,” Keith said, agreeing with nothing. “It’s dark, you know? Makes me worry about my own juniors, man. Good thing we know where they are at all times. Lilly wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s a real good mom, you know?”

“Ah, yes,” York agreed. “And where are they today?”

“Who?” Keith asked.

“Your children,” York asked, uncertainly. Keith grinned blankly and nodded.

“Oh yeah, that. Yeah, they’re good, FBI. Kaysen is watching them.” Keith began tapping idly on the edge of the counter in tune with the song he was remembering.

“Forrest Kaysen?” York asked. Keith nodded. “Interesting. He’s a friend of your family?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” Keith said. “He comes to town on the reg and always has some gnarly stories to share. Life on the road, right? He picks up all kinds of stories and stuff out there. Makes you wish you could just… go out on the open road, I dunno, man. Something.” He stopped and laughed loudly, the sudden sound echoing around inside York’s head like a marble. “Naw, I would never do that! I love it here, with my Lilly, my kids! Even her old man. Man, I did all that, I’m done. I’m happy.”

“I see,” York said, though he didn’t. “You’re saying you’ve already lived the wild and crazy part of your life, Keith?”

“Yeah man, yeah,” Keith laughed, grinning at York. “I used to travel around the state and play music, you know? Made some money, made a lot of friends like that. I got some stories. Those days were killer! But I found my one, you know? When I met Lilly, I just… none of that mattered anymore. Man, she’s the one. She’s the best. I couldn’t go anywhere else from the day I met her.”

“Oh, you’re not from Greenvale?” York asked. Keith shook his head, the relaxed grin still stuck idly on his face.

“This place is my home, man, it is, totally,” Keith explained. “But just cause of Lilly, who knows where I’d be without her, right? Man, I never expected I’d be doing this here, where I am now. But I couldn’t be happier, FBI, I mean it! You ever do anything like that? You make any big choices, got any girls back home?”

“No, Keith, I’m afraid not,” York said with a weak smile. “I’ve never met anyone who turned out to be like Lilly is for you. I’m not sure I ever will.”

“Hey, that’s no good, FBI!” Keith laughed, mostly to himself. “You gotta, okay? You gotta promise me… You know life at the FBI won’t be enough forever, right? You gotta find, like, you gotta have something more. You gotta give up all that youthful stuff sometime and find your one, FBI.”

“Thank you for the advice, Keith,” York said. “I think I’ve already moved past my, as you said, ‘youthful stuff’. I used to dress like a hardcore punk rocker when I was in my teens. Thankfully, I’ve put that away as I’ve got older.” He couldn’t help but glancing over Keith’s seemingly-permanent leather jacket, and his spiked hair and huge sideburns. Not that he wanted to invite any comparisons.

“Oh, man, FBI, you don’t know what you’re saying!” Keith laughed, his shoulders shaking with the sound. “Imagine that! And I thought a guy like you is born wearing a suit and tie, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” York said, laughing politely. “So, if you’re not from Greenvale, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Raincoat Killer legend? I believe it’s a local story, probably from some time ago.”

“Naw, man, naw,” Keith said. “I don’t think so, FBI. Nothing like that. But I know a few… that’s what you’re into? Like, those funky old stories and stuff?” He leant across the counter and stared intently at York as if he was going to impart a secret. “I know my share of those.”

“Then please enlighten me, Keith,” York said with interest. Keith nodded absently before letting a creepy smile spread across his lips. He was far too invested in his role as a storyteller, York thought, and he hadn’t even begun talking.

“There’s a legend about that art gallery out of town. Have you been out there, FBI?”

“Diane’s gallery, yes I have,” York answered. Now he was genuinely curious. Even if this did just turn out to be a children’s story.

“That place used to be an old house, owned by this wicked rich family, yeah?” Keith began. “This couple… they were a railway family, they owned trains and stuff around here. They had this daughter, and she was like, never allowed to leave the house. They kept her locked up in there. Real messed up, right?”

“Yes,” York agreed sceptically. “That would be a bad way to treat someone.”

“So I guess people claimed they kept her locked up cause she was like, a babe. And the old man didn’t want his daughter mixing with people in case, well you know, FBI! She was a babe!”

“I understand, yes,” York said, holding back a sigh. So far, so nothing.

“And this girl is like, well she doesn’t exactly want to spend her whole life locked up in that house. So she decides she’s gotta get out of there, like no matter the cost, right? So she sits in her room and she prays every day and every night. She prays that someone will come along and save her. And then weeks go by, and no-one does. So she kneels down that evening to pray and instead of her usual thing, you know what she says, FBI? She says that if no-one comes to rescue her tomorrow, she’s gonna off herself! It’s just, like, too much of an effort to live anymore. That’s so sad, FBI… and then the next day, her parents leave and they lock her in the house like always, and she waits all day, but no-one comes. I mean people don’t even know this sad babe is living there, FBI, it’s messed up how she’s all alone. So she says that’s it, and you know what she does then?”

“What did she do, Keith?” York asked.

“She gets a rope ready and she hangs it down from the balcony in the entrance room, yeah? Then she lifts it up and ties it round her neck, and she’s gonna jump over the balcony with this noose round her neck and just off herself! She thinks no-one, not even the big G himself, cares enough to stop her. And so she’s just about to do it, when the doors burst open! Like, the front doors just open and there’s this guy, just standing there! They lock eyes and she asks like ‘what are you doing here?’ like that. And you know what this guy says? He says he was walking past and he saw her silhouette illuminated through the window, and the rope, and he had to like, man, he just had to stop her! So he ran in and he did. And this girl, she’s like never been this touched or anything ever. She tells him right there that she thought no-one was ever gonna come and help her, you know? She said she thought her parents would have their way and her old man would keep her locked up forever. She’d just like, waste away in that house all alone. But now she’s happy, cause this guy, he’s gonna save her, right? So you know what happens next?”

“They run into each other’s arms?” York suggested dryly. This was barely a story, let alone an urban legend. Keith smirked darkly back at him.

“Naw, FBI,” he said. “She’s about to get down, when she trips and goes over the balcony. The rope’s still around her neck, brah. She hung herself! She hung down from the balcony right there! The guy just watches, he can’t even look away, it’s sick! She’s freakin’ dead! So he thinks about what she said and how this didn’t have to happen cause he’s thinking kind of like this girl was his one, you know? He knew it the second he saw her that she was his one and only, and now she’s dead, and he has nothing left to live for! So he goes out, and you know what? The next day they find her old man. Dead. And the guy is there with him, and he’s dead too. He offed the dad to avenge his girl, then he killed himself to they could be together. It’s twisted… but it’s kind of romantic too, right FBI? They say on rainy nights you can still see them together, him and his girl, dancing on the balcony in that house. You can see them when lightning lights up the sky, through the window.” Keith stopped, his words dissolving into laughter. “Man, I don’t know how Diane can live there. Maybe she hangs out with them, right? Dancing away in the afterlife!”

“Keith…” York said slowly. He was stunned. The story had taken a much gorier direction than he’d expected. And here Keith was treating it like a funny anecdote, as if the two teenagers had ended up at their senior prom rather than in a grisly double suicide. “Is that story true?”

“Huh, FBI? Is it true?” Keith laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t say, brah! It’s just one of those stories, right? People know them, but they don’t know why. I don’t know who told me. It’s just a story! They’re probably there now, waiting for night so they can dance together, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” York said uncertainly. Keith was still laughing to himself and York decided to walk away. He wasn’t missed. The story couldn’t be true, he thought. “No, Zach, that’s right,” he muttered. “There was a contradiction. If her parents locked her in the house, how did the boyfriend make his grand entrance? Of course it wasn’t true.” He shook his head slightly. Perhaps it was just with Carol’s death fresh in his mind that the story had bothered him as much as it had. After all, he’d dealt with far worse in the line of duty. Speaking of which, he needed to get back to it. He still wanted to buy some snacks. Lilly was standing nearby and restocking a shelf, so he went over to speak with her. She smiled warmly when she saw him.

“Agent York!” she said. “How are you, hon? I heard all about it, it’s so sad. I can’t believe this happened again, and so soon. You’ll pass my condolences to Thomas, won’t you? This must be hitting him so hard. I can’t imagine. I’m an only child.”

“Yes, Lilly, I will,” York said smiling in return. He was glad to be talking to the more level-headed member of the couple. Lilly was unlikely to spring a bizarre story on him out of the blue.

“Thank you, hon,” Lilly said. “I know it must be hard for you too, no matter how many times you’ve seen it happen with your job.” She leant across and gave his bicep a sympathetic squeeze. “Oh!” she giggled. “Not that it doesn’t work well for you!” It took York a moment to realise what she meant. He wasn’t exactly used to playful flirting.

“Th-thank you, Lilly,” he said. “Er, I need to buy a few things.” Lilly fixed him with a smile that made him feel slightly warm under the collar. It was all very innocent, he was sure. Just unexpected.

“Sure thing,” Lilly said, back to business. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll need some coffee,” York said, “to go. And some doughnuts would not go amiss. Do you have any chocolate? Preferably dark chocolate.”

“Of course we do,” Lilly said. “Shall I get all that?” York nodded and thanked her. Lilly fetched everything for him and brought it back in a bag.

“Oh yes, and some more cigarettes,” York said. “I’m running low.” Lilly smiled and went to collect them for him too. As York handed her the money, she let out a soft sigh.

“You don’t know when Becky will be feeling better, hon?” she asked. “I’m worried about her. Did she say anything to you?”

“I’m sorry, Lilly, she didn’t,” York apologised. Lilly nodded sadly.

“Well, I understand. It’s got to be a very tough time,” she said. “I just hope we can help her through it soon.” They said goodbye, and York made his way back outside with his bag of refreshments. In the parking lot, he saw a familiar pickup truck and, just beyond it, Forrest and the two Ingram twins. The twins were playing with the Dalmatian, chasing it around and laughing together. Sweet, York thought. The way kids should be. He was glad that they at least were spared from knowing about the violence that had taken place in Greenvale. He thought that Lilly was probably right to hide it from them. Let them be innocent for just a while longer.

“Well hey there!” Forrest called, sensing York and waving at him. “If it isn’t that FBI agent, York!”

“Hello, Forrest,” York said, walking towards the other man. “I see you’re cheerful today.”

“Well shucks, shouldn’t I be?” Forrest said, grinning. York expected he’d been out with the twins all day and hadn’t heard the news. He wondered where the rumour mill had started. His money would be on Fiona at the hospital, and the aftershocks from Sallie’s display at the diner. In a small town, that was all the people needed to start talking.

“I’m afraid there’s been another death,” York said. “Another murder.” He had spoken fairly quietly, but he still looked in the twins’ direction to make sure they hadn’t overheard. It took a moment for Forrest’s face to fall, as if it wasn’t used to frowning.

“And here I am just goofing off…” he sighed. “That’s terrible. Who died?”

“Did you know Carol MacLaine?” York asked. Forrest considered the name, mulling it over, tasting it. Eventually he seemed to recognise it.

“Oh, yeah, I did. From that bar, the… what is it called? Forbidden Planet?” Forrest asked.

“Close. The Galaxy of Terror,” York said. “Similar movies. But yes, she died. The killer managed to strike again.”

“Gee, that’s a real shame,” Forrest said. “You couldn’t stop him, huh?” York shook his head, feeling a weight sitting in his stomach. He couldn’t. He was barely any closer to catching the killer than he had been the first night he’d arrived in Greenvale. He had to move fast, before they had the chance to kill for a third time. He dreaded to think of the possibility.

“Sorry, Forrest…” York said. “I need to go. I have things to do.” He felt worse talking to the man, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was just telling someone else the news, or perhaps it was that, unlike many of the people he’d spoken to today, Forrest hadn’t offered any sympathy. Not that he needed to. Carol’s death wasn’t York’s loss, after all. Still, it tired him to carry on this conversation, and he wanted to leave.

“I’ll see you around soon,” Forrest said. “You bet.” York excused himself and went to his car, climbing inside and taking a breath. The Milk Barn had been a bad choice. First it was Keith’s gory story, and now Forrest’s… what exactly? Nothing. He hadn’t done a thing wrong. York just didn’t feel comfortable around him, that was all.

“Let’s go, Zach,” York muttered. “We’ve got places to be.”


	23. Lover’s Quarrel

Chapter Twenty-Three. [ Lover’s Quarrel ]

York parked his car around the side of the art gallery, tucked in so it couldn’t be easily seen at a glance. He took out the coffee he’d got from Lilly and drank. It was still hot. Not as good as Polly’s, or Olivia’s. But an awful lot better than Emily’s. Certainly satisfying enough for drinking in the car, at least. He wasn’t expecting top service. It was cloudy outside and he expected most people would be at home. Especially after hearing that there had been another murder. He knew that if he was a civilian, he’d want to be safely inside. Or rather, he suspected. He couldn’t completely relate.

“So, Zach,” he said to himself. “About Emily.” He took another sip of coffee, waiting a moment before carrying on. “What do you think of her? She’s a very talented police officer, isn’t she? And especially at her age. Not that she’s too much younger than me, Zach. I like to think we’re on equal footing. She seems to respect me, I mean, in terms of law enforcement. I suppose she hasn’t had much of a chance to stretch her muscles out here in the boondocks. This case might just make her career. It would be good if something positive comes out of it.” He stopped talking when he heard a car coming. From where he was, it was hard to see the road. He had to wait until the car parked up in front of the gallery. He opened the car door as silently as he could, and edged towards the corner of the gallery so he could see who was there.

He was in time to see Nick banging on the front door. Unusual. Nick, he thought, was the kind of plain-spoken, irritable person that he couldn’t imagine getting on well with Diane’s cryptic, secretive ways. So why he would be here was a mystery York couldn’t wait to watch play out. When the door opened, Nick launched straight into what he’d come to say.

“This has to stop,” he said. His voice was as rough as sandpaper, and loud enough to send a small gang of birds resting on the gallery roof scattering into the wind.

“Nick… don’t you want to come in and talk this over?” Diane asked. She wasn’t pleading for a second chance, York realised. She was amused. Amused by Nick’s annoyance. Although it was difficult to make everything out, York thought he saw Nick’s face contorting in frustration.

“You think you can talk this around?” Nick snapped. “I thought I could trust you, Diane. We were friends, weren’t we?”

“We’re still friends,” Diane said, her voice lilting playfully, like leaves carried in a breeze.

“Oh, you fucking think so?” Nick snarled. “If I lose Olivia… if I lose Olivia over this… this fucking game! You think I’ll ever look you in the eye again, Diane? You think that, do you?” There was a pause and though York couldn’t see it, he could picture the detached, amused smile playing on Diane’s lips.

“Nicholas…” Diane laughed lightly. As if this conversation was something shared over a glass of wine, an anecdote about something entirely inconsequential. Nothing serious, as it clearly was to Nick, but not to her. “Olivia is a grown woman. You’ll have to start letting her make her own decisions soon. If she no longer wants to be with you… and after everything you’ve done, I can hardly blame her… then what can you possibly do about it?”

“What I’ve done? What I’ve done?!” Nick shouted. “This is about you!”

“No, it isn’t,” Diane said, and her voice suddenly lost that playful quality, turning sharp in a second. A dagger’s edge. “You made your mistakes, Nick. And you will pay for them. If you no longer wish to carry on our friendship, then I respect your decision, but let me promise you this. No mistake goes unpunished. Everything you put out into the world comes back to you eventually. Never forget that.” The door slammed shut with a bang and Nick was left outside, open-mouthed and alone. He hovered for a minute, considering knocking again, and eventually stormed off to his car. York was waiting for him when he did.

“Christ!” Nick shouted in surprise. “You gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here, spying on me? That was a private conversation.”

“Then perhaps you should have had it at a lower volume,” York suggested. Nick glared at him and he tried not to find it funny. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t come here for you. I was going to speak to Diane myself, actually.”

“Yeah?” Nick sniffed. “Well go for it. It’s like talking to a brick wall. With lipstick.”

“It seems you’re probably right,” York agreed. “Why exactly are you so angry with Diane? It seems to have something to do with Olivia.”

“Don’t you start on me!” Nick snapped. He pushed a finger into York’s face to make his point and York had to turn his head. “I’ve had enough today already. First I lose our waitress, just because her mother can’t stand letting her daughter have a little independence, then Diane decides to take the high ground with me, and now the FBI agent who’s meant to be catching a murderer shows up to stalk me in his off time! Well, no. I’m not putting up with it.” Nick reached for the car door, but York placed a hand firmly against it so that it couldn’t be opened. Nick let out a long agitated sigh.

“Nick, we’re going to talk,” York said bluntly. “What is happening between you and Olivia?” Nick looked from York to the car and York had to wonder if he was planning on punching him and running. Nick just had that kind of look in his eye. Thankfully, he decided against it.

“Olivia…” Nick sighed. “What is going on with her, eh? We used to be so happy, I swear. I look back on it now, and I wonder… Did I imagine it all? No, I swear. We were.” York took out a cigarette. He sensed Nick would be getting at the point from the long way round. “Olivia’s always had her own shit,” Nick continued. “Some darkness. I see it in her face. She’ll stare off at nothing for ten minutes and then she’ll smile and act like nothing happened. Who knows what goes on inside her head, I certainly don’t. But I loved her. I do love her! I… just. Things have gone wrong.”

“Is that so?” York asked, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air and watching it disappear.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “I knew she was hiding something. We’ve drifted apart, but I still knew. She’s never where she’s meant to be. But she wouldn’t talk about it, oh no!” He shook his hand out with a scoff of frustration. “Instead it was ‘well you and Diane!’, ‘you’re always with Diane!’, and ‘how can you question me when you’re out all night with her!’. As if that’s the point!”

“I can’t say I think Olivia was being unreasonable,” York said carefully. “Not if you were doing what she thought you were.”

“You’re as bad as she is, with those vague accusations,” Nick growled. York took his point.

“Are you and Diane involved romantically?” he asked. Nick glared at him which York felt was unnecessary. After all, the question was inevitable.

“No,” Nick said. “We were just friends. Diane and I like to talk about art. I’ve always been interested in it, and obviously she knows plenty about it. Not that Olivia would accept that that was all it was. And now she’s gone out and got her own secrets. I’ll be damned if I let that carry on.”

“Are you telling the truth, Nick?” York asked. Instead of answering, Nick pushed York’s hand away from the car door and got in, climbing over the passenger seat and forcing York to hurry around to his window.

“I’ll be leaving now, Agent,” Nick said coldly. “You have fun with Diane. The two of you are perfect for each other. Neither of you could give a shit about the people that get caught up in your mess.” He cranked the car into life and reversed out before York had a chance to form a proper response. He watched Nick’s car disappear down the road and dropped his cigarette onto the floor, stomping it out.

“What do you think, Zach?” York asked aloud. “Is he telling the truth about him and Diane? It certainly sounded like a lover’s quarrel, don’t you think? And what was all that about Olivia? She seems so gentle and reserved, it’s hard for me to believe she’s involved in anything bad. Although, if she was, I suppose Nick would be the person to ask about it.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Everyone in Greenvale has their secrets, don’t they, Zach? And to think. I was only here to see how Diane was acting after our latest victim turned up. Nick’s an accidental fish caught on our line. I can see why he’s not happy about it.” York turned to look at the grand front doors of the art gallery and took a moment to think. “Shall we, Zach? I think we still have some questions for our dear friend Diane.” He smirked to himself. “Maybe we can even test the truth of Keith’s phantoms.”

He knocked on the door. It took a while for Diane to answer. Presumably, she thought Nick had returned to hassle her further, and was trying to avoid another dose of his righteous anger. When she did open the door, she raised her eyebrows in surprise to see York there.

“The FBI Agent,” she said. “Back again. And how can I help you today?”

“Diane,” he said, as pleasantly as he could make himself. “I wonder if you’ve heard the news. Carol MacLaine has died.”

“How tragic,” Diane said, betraying no emotion. “She did used to drive too fast, if I recall. Was it an accident with her car?”

“No,” York said, taking note of her phrasing. “She was murdered. The second victim of our mysterious killer, I believe. First Quint, and now Carol. What do you think about that?”

“I think very little about that,” Diane said, smiling faintly. “I wasn’t close to either of them.”

“That’s funny, Diane,” York said sharply. “Quint was your younger sister’s boyfriend. You say you’re not close to her either, but I wonder if you were happy that they were together. Especially with the rumours swirling about him and Carol. Carol, who is also dead. Carol wasn’t very nice to Becky, was she?”

“You’d have to ask Becky, that’s her business, is it not?” Diane answered, with her usual degree of helpfulness.

“I have a question for you,” York said. “No mistake goes unpunished. Everything you put out into the world comes back to you eventually. Do you think that’s true?” Diane’s face broke into a smirk and he watched as she covered her mouth with a hand and her shoulders shook momentarily with a silent laugh. She knew he’d been listening in on her confrontation with Nick, and it was nothing but funny to her.

“Oh, Agent York,” she said. “Where on earth did you hear that…?” Before he could answer, she fixed him with one last dark smile and shut the door, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor fading away into the distance behind the closed door. She was gone, back into the shadows. York stood, frowning to himself for a while, mulling it over.

“The day I get a straight answer from her is the day Polly Oxford is our killer, Zach,” York muttered.

♦ ♦ ♦

York lay back on the hotel bed, letting the comfortable surroundings soothe his disordered mind. He was trying to think things through, remember what had to be remembered. It was difficult with a dozen different voices buzzing in his head. He rolled over, thankful for the cold surface of the hotel pillow. Much softer than anything he had at home.

“You know, Zach, we should really make some improvements when we get back,” York mumbled. “I understand that things aren’t all rosy here in Greenvale, but getting a taste of the country life is making me think we’re missing some things in our own life.”

He shifted in place, trying to get comfortable and keeping his eyes closed. The last thing he needed was those slight shifting shapes that always seemed to crop up in the darkness distracting him.

“I don’t know what to make of some of the townsfolk,” he said to himself. “Something’s happening with Nick and Diane. Olivia seems to have been dragged into it. It’s a shame. I really liked her when we first met, she seemed very sweet. The kind of woman you can just talk to for an hour about nothing. It’s just as well she’s working in the service industry, isn’t it, Zach? But I’m not sure. There’s something about the way Nick talked about her today. He certainly doesn’t trust his wife, and in my experience that means that either the husband’s rotten, or the wife is. Usually both. There really is something there I’d like to know more about.”

“Of course, the person I feel sorriest for right now is Thomas,” he continued. “Regardless of what you might think of Carol, Thomas clearly loved her dearly. It’s terrible to imagine losing a sibling like that. I can’t imagine much worse. And yet, there are still secrets there. Whatever George got the two of them involved with… that’s certainly a factor in all this. I wonder what will happen with him and Thomas now. And we still don’t know the identity of Thomas’ mysterious late night caller. The one he was talking with on the phone outside the Galaxy of Terror that night. Who could it have been…? Well, regardless. There’s a lot more to this than we can see yet, Zach. I have a feeling we still haven’t had our last surprise from Carol MacLaine.”

“And Becky…” he sighed. “First her boyfriend dies, and now her enemy. But I don’t think that’ll balance things out in her mind, do you, Zach? It’s strange. Do you think Becky will be better off in the long run, or not? I suppose it depends on what kind of person Quint was. People seemed to like him. I can’t imagine he ever hurt Becky. Although someone who cared about her and didn’t know him well may have made that mistake.” York frowned to himself.

“I wonder what else the Raincoat Killer has in store for us, Zach,” he muttered into the pillow.


	24. Hospital Visit

Chapter Twenty-Four. [ Hospital Visit ]

There was little point in going into the sheriff’s department the next morning. York suspected that George would be taking another personal day, and without him looking over his shoulder, York thought he would manage just fine on his own. Besides, he intended to go and visit Thomas in the hospital before he did anything else. He was worried for the other man, and he needed to know that he was getting better.

When he arrived at the hospital, he caught Fiona’s eye and went over to say hello. She had a book in her lap again, though this time it was a novel.

“Some light reading, Fiona?” York asked with a small smile.

“Yeah… I guess,” she said. “I mean it was. But it kind of seems wrong now. It’s not as fun.” She held the book up enough so that he could see the title. It was a crime novel, from what he could tell, one of the pulpy paperbacks you found selling cheaply in the backs of grocery stores. He could see why it had lost its appeal.

“Ah yes,” he said. “I know you heard about Carol.” Fiona nodded sadly, tapping her fingers idly on the desk top.

“Yeah, I saw when they brought her in, and the doctor… Ushah… told me who it was,” she explained. “I was shocked, I mean, Carol? I didn’t think, I guess, I couldn’t imagine someone hurting her like that. She was always so tough.”

“She did seem that way,” York agreed. “Did the two of you go to school together?”

“Well we were at school at the same time, but I’m older than her. We never really talked. I guess I’m not gonna get to know her now… like ever,” Fiona said wistfully. “Not that we had much in common anyway. She basically lived in a totally different world.”

“You didn’t happen to know Becky or Quint at school as well, did you Fiona?” York asked. She shook her head, destabilising her nurse’s cap.

“No,” she said, fixing the cap back into her hair. “They were too much younger than me. I don’t think I really know either of them much. I’ve been to the Swery 65 before, but I dunno if Quint and I ever really talked.”

“I see,” York said. He considered for a moment, then gambled on another question. “What about Michael Tillotson?” he asked. Fiona crinkled up her nose with an uncertain smile.

“Who?” she asked. “Michael… oh!” She snapped her fingers as it came to her. “Do you mean Harry’s assistant? Is he our age? I always thought he was older. I mean, with that job and everything.”

“I’m not sure,” York admitted. Fiona laughed and he thought it was pleasant to hear someone do so after everything that had happened in the past day. It almost made things seem normal.

“Yeah… no,” she said. “I only ever talk to him when he comes to check in for Harry. I don’t know anything about him. Were he and Carol…? Oh my god, that can’t be right!” Fiona’s eyes grew wide with the anticipation of gossip and York realised he had to put a stop to it before she began a telephone tree.

“No, no,” York corrected quickly. “I was only curious. I find it strange that he and Harry refuse to talk to anyone else in town.” He paused for a moment. “Say, you work here at the hospital. I know you can’t give me any private patient information, but do you know if Harry Stewart is able to talk underneath that gas mask of his?”

“Um…” Fiona said, sounding slightly uncomfortable. York supposed she wasn’t sure if she should be sharing the details with him. But he hoped she did. “I don’t really know. I think so, but… I couldn’t be sure. I’ve never seen him talk.” She frowned, perhaps considering for herself what an odd thing that was.

“Thank you, Fiona,” York said. “I appreciate your help. Now, I did come here to see Thomas. Do you know which room he’s in?”

“Oh right of course, yeah!” Fiona said. “Yes, he’s down that hallway there, and it’s signposted. There’s only really one active ward. We don’t have to keep many people in overnight.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” York agreed. Even though the hospital was a large building, he could see it operated with a skeleton staff. Greenvale had a very small population, and he imagined the number of serious illnesses and accidents were rather limited. He said goodbye and made his way off in the direction she had mentioned. There was only one door along the way from under which light was visible. He could just about hear the buzzing of active machines and a low mutter of conversation.

“Maybe we should have stopped for flowers, Zach?” York said, amused. Although he did hope that wasn’t the expected etiquette. He hadn’t noticed a florist in Greenvale yet. With a small smile to himself, he opened the door and entered the ward. He could see that Thomas was at the end of the room, in the only occupied bed. Ushah was sitting in a chair beside him. When he noticed York approaching, he dropped the clipboard he’d been holding, grabbing for it and failing to stop it tumbling onto the floor.

“Err… you frightened me,” Ushah said sheepishly as York gave him a quizzical look.

“I’d have thought your job made you all but immune to shocks, Doctor,” York said. Ushah gave him a weak smirk. Thomas seemed happier to see him.

“York!” he said. “I didn’t think you’d come, I thought you’d be… too busy.”

“Of course I came, Thomas,” York said gently. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Thomas looked down at his hands and sighed, his face falling at the reminder of what had happened.

“I’m… better than yesterday,” he said. It was just about the only positive thing he could say, York expected. “I can’t imagine going home, but… I don’t think I need to stay in the hospital any longer.”

“You should consider staying with a friend, until things calm down,” York said. He added, carefully: “Do you have any friends in town you could stay with?” There had to be at least one. Whoever Thomas had been talking to on the phone that night.

“Not… really,” Thomas said. “No. No-one.” York noticed that George and Emily were both removed from consideration. Although, he supposed, the last thing Thomas needed was to be surrounded by reminders of the police’s investigation. Or, indeed, to be around George when he was this vulnerable.

“Then perhaps you should stay in the hospital after all,” York suggested. “After all, Ushah seems to be taking perfectly good care of you.” Ushah laughed awkwardly at the compliment.

“Agent York, I don’t normally spend this much time with individual patients,” he confessed. “But we happen to be quiet today.”

“I can see that,” York said, taking a second to look back at all the empty beds. “And that’s just as well.” He wondered what would happen if there was some kind of outbreak in Greenvale, or a massive car accident. Surely there were other doctors, though Ushah was the only one he’d seen walking around in a white coat. Maybe if such a thing happened, Fiona would get some on the job training. Probably not the kind she would want.

“Thank you for checking up on me,” Thomas said suddenly. “I really didn’t think you would bother. I mean, it’s just another chore, and you have so much on your plate already…”

“Nonsense, Thomas,” York insisted. “I was happy to.” For a moment they shared a smile together, the warmth of it spreading across Thomas’ face and momentarily bringing light into his eyes. York felt a twisting in his stomach. He would have to be careful. He didn’t want to give Thomas the wrong idea, and that was going to be extra difficult if he found himself getting caught up in the other man’s smile. He cleared his throat and glanced away.

“If you find yourself with any more free time, feel free to drop by for a game of chess, Agent York,” Ushah said. In just a slightly prickly voice, York thought. He had to wonder if he imagined it. “Thomas here can barely tell the king from the queen!”

“I’ve never played before!” Thomas protested. “That’s hardly my fault.” Ushah laughed to himself, shaking his head.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” York said. “Thomas, don’t worry about rushing back to work. You won’t be needed. I mean… we will make ourselves manage without you.” He had made a mess out of his reassurance, but Thomas didn’t seem to mind.

“I understand what you meant,” he said. “Goodbye, York. And thanks again. For coming by.” York said goodbye to both of them and excused himself. He walked out through the hospital and out into the parking lot. He was just reaching for the car door when he felt someone come up behind him. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through his body. The killer? Had they followed him here? He put a hand down to grab at his gun and spun around. It was not the Raincoat Killer, it was only George. Not that that explanation made much more sense to him.

“George?” he asked stiffly. “Why are you sneaking up on me here?”

“Agent Morgan,” George said, touching the brim of his hat out of habit. “I saw you and… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Hmm. Well, go ahead, George,” York said, unhappily. He wasn’t looking forward to this confrontation, whatever had brought it on. He couldn’t wait to be told how he had let another innocent Greenvale citizen die, or how he was bungling the case, or even how his incompetence in Carol’s death had led George to decide to kick him out of his town by force.

“I wonder,” George said gruffly, “if we can meet somewhere in town tonight and, ugh. Go to a bar. Get a drink together?” That, arguably, was one of the things York hadn’t been expecting to hear. Second only to a confession that George had faked the killings to bring York to town because he was a real fan of his work and wanted his autograph. York struggled hard to resist the urge to laugh at his own internal monologue.

“I… would be fine with that,” York said slowly. “Where did you want to –?”

“We’ll meet at the Swery 65, Richard’s bar. It’s the only place that’ll be open,” George said quickly, talking over him. “Meet me there around nine. Don’t keep me waiting all night, Agent Morgan. You hear me?”

“I understand, George. I’ll see you tonight.” York was barely done answering before George grunted goodbye and marched off back to his car. York watched him go, feeling utterly confused.

“I feel like I was just asked on a date by the school bully, Zach,” York said. “Although that would be more believable. I always thought… what was his name… that one who used to steal our books and throw them over the fence. I always thought he was trying too hard, don’t you, Zach?” He shook his head. “Well, that’s teenage boys for you. No good at communication. Maybe George never grew out of that phase. I suppose we’ll have a chance to ask him tonight.” Not that he would, York thought. He imagined asking the wrong question and running afoul of George Woodman might get him in slightly more trouble than winding up a teenage bully. Even if the similarities were striking.

♦ ♦ ♦

At exactly nine, York walked through the door of the Swery 65. He saw George at once, sitting at a small, two-person table against the wall. York had already decided he would act cautiously. He knew things about George that George thought were secrets, and he felt that revealing his hand would go over badly. As far as George was concerned, for tonight, they were just two men brought together by occupation and circumstance.

“Agent Morgan,” George said as York sat down opposite him. “I got you a drink. There’s no point wasting time fussing over it.” York saw that George had got him a beer and smiled despite his distaste for it. He took a sip and winced. George was apparently oblivious, and drank from his own bottle without comment.

“Thank you, George,” York said. “Now, I assume there was something you wanted to talk about?” He hoped so. If this was supposed to be nothing more than a friendly outing, he would have to rethink his career in profiling, because he had got George all wrong.

“You went to see Thomas earlier?” George muttered into his beer. “How was he?”

“Thomas?” York asked. “He seems better. Obviously, things are very hard right now, but I think he’ll recover from the shock in good time.” George grunted, nodding slowly, staring into space.

“You know, he wouldn’t see me,” George said eventually. York raised his eyebrows. He had to admit that while he was glad to hear it, for Thomas’ sake, it was a surprise. It did explain why George had been at the hospital.

“He… wouldn’t?” York asked, trying to act curious and innocent, as if he had no reason to suspect why Thomas might have a problem seeing his purely platonic friend. Thankfully, George was too wrapped up in himself to notice that anything was afoot.

“No,” George muttered. “He told me to go. He thought… it doesn’t matter what he thought.” York stayed silent and waited for more. He got the impression that George had brought him here so he would have someone to vent to, having lost access to the few people he usually relied on. If York didn’t already know so much about George’s relationships, he might feel sorry for him. “Agent Morgan, I want you to be straight with me about something,” George said suddenly.

“Yes, of course. What?” York asked. George took another swill of beer before he spoke.

“Who killed Carol?” George asked. “Now, don’t bullshit me. I want to know. I don’t care if you don’t have enough evidence to bring them in yet, you tell me who did it.” George stared intently into York’s face, making him feel quite uncomfortable. George had a powerful stare when it was fixed on you. It was almost haunting, York thought.

“I don’t know,” York said honestly. He had his theories, that much was true. But he didn’t know. He wasn’t going to bring George’s wrath down on an innocent head. He was going to solve this case properly.

“Damn it, York!” George shouted, banging his fist down on the table and making York and the surrounding patrons jump in their seats. York could feel his heart pounding in his chest. George was a powerful man. He was tall and muscular. York did not want to be on his bad side any more than he already was, and he was starting to wonder if avoiding that was even possible.

“George, I’m sorry, I am,” York said calmly, as much as he could manage. He found it hard to keep his eyes from darting down to George’s curled fist. “If I knew, I would tell you. I don’t know.” They held a weighty gaze for several moments until, at last, George looked away with an angry sigh.

“Then what’s the point of you…” George muttered. “You come in here, to my town, stir things up. And you haven’t done anything to solve this case, not a thing.” York couldn’t argue, and he wouldn’t want to try even if he had a comeback. So far, George was right. All his theories were worth nothing until he could find some concrete evidence.

“I’m sorry,” York said. “I know Carol’s death must be personal to you… because she was Thomas’ sister. And you’re friends,” he added quickly, hoping he hadn’t said too much.

“Yeah… yeah it is,” George agreed, bitterness boiling under the surface of his words. “Carol was all right, you know that? No, you probably don’t. I bet she treated you like dirt. She had a habit of closing herself off to people. Not that I can blame her.” York nodded, listening to George’s outpouring. Why, the sheriff was almost letting himself get emotional. “She was tough. She had to be. I don’t think she ever cared about anyone but Thomas in her life. Well, Thomas, you know him. He’s soft. Soft all the way through. I bet he caught a lot of hurt over the years going around like that, and Carol… she was like the older sister somehow. She took care of him. What do you think’s going to happen to Thomas now that she’s gone?”

“I suppose he’ll need to find someone else to rely on,” York said. Perhaps he already had.

“Yeah, right, I guess he will. Cause anyone’d be willing to look after Thomas, wouldn’t they?” George snapped. “He’s a baby. He acts sweet, but he’s petty, you know that, don’t you? He’s petty. No-one’ll ever look after him now, not with Carol gone. No-one wants to put up with that.” George clenched the bottle in his hand hard and York wondered if he was going to watch it explode at any moment. George was angry with Thomas, and York’s curiosity was too much for him. He couldn’t hold back the question that was burning on his tongue.

“George… why didn’t he want to see you at the hospital?” York asked slowly. George grunted, another bitter reaction that revealed more than he would have wanted it to.

“You know what he said to me? What he had the fucking balls to say to me?” George growled. “I couldn’t come and visit him because I didn’t ‘care’ about Carol. I ‘let her die’, because I’m the sheriff. Never fucking mind that my investigation’s been snatched out of my hands, the reins yanked away and given over to the FBI, who couldn’t be bothered to send anyone but the dregs! Heaven fucking forbid they send someone who can keep this town safe, no, we’re not worth it. I’m too goddamn dumb to solve my own case, keep my own town safe, apparently. Thomas can fuck himself for all I care, he doesn’t know a thing about responsibility.” George tilted the bottle up to his mouth, drinking roughly and spilling the beer onto his chin, his hands shaking slightly with the force of his anger.

York came to a conclusion. George wasn’t so much upset that Thomas wouldn’t speak to him because he’d been rejected by a friend, or even a lover. No. He was upset that Thomas was rebelling against him, against his control. George was used to having his own way, especially with the gentle, pliable Thomas, and Thomas had dared to upset their arrangement. Oh, how George must be stewing, York thought. First he had lost his authority as sheriff to an out-of-towner, then he’d lost Carol who York expected had worshipped the ground he walked on. And now even Thomas, the safe bet that he was, was resisting his domination. No wonder the man was angry. York frowned to himself, feeling a wave of anger himself. He couldn’t say anything about it, of course. If he tried, not only would George stop being even vaguely helpful in the investigation, he would probably clock him in the eye for good measure. York did not enjoy this, sitting and pretending to be a sympathetic shoulder to a man he couldn’t stand. But if he had learnt anything in life, it was to pretend.

“I see,” he said, as neutrally as possible. It didn’t matter. George was barely listening to him anymore. York was just a sounding board. He was only there because no-one else would have come.

“You know what I think?” George continued, undeterred. “I bet Thomas thinks I killed her. That’s the real reason he won’t see me. He thinks I murdered Carol, because that’s just who I am, isn’t it, Thomas? You bet, I’d stab a woman in the face, bury her in a lake. I’d love every moment of it, wouldn’t I, Thomas? That’s who he thinks I am. He thinks I’d kill Carol. I know he does. The traitor. He’s a traitor, going around, thinking that.”

“I know you didn’t kill Carol, you were with me,” York said. That much, at least, was true. Although he doubted Thomas’ grief followed any rational pattern. He needed someone to blame for his sister’s death, and York could see why he’d chosen George. If the sheriff hadn’t been with him at the time of the murder, he might agree.

“At least one of you has a brain,” George snorted. He hesitated, before finally adding, “Emily too. She’s been off with me since it happened. I don’t know what Thomas told her, if he told her I did it. She’s avoiding me.”

“Is she…?” York asked unhappily. He was glad that Emily was doing so, but the last thing he wanted was for any of George’s anger to be directed at her. She deserved to stay free of him.

“Yeah, she is,” George said. His eyes softened slightly. York wasn’t any more comfortable with that. He wished he could keep Emily off George’s radar all together. “Emily’s been a good friend. Ever since she moved here, pretty much,” George admitted. “She’s a fine officer, too. I don’t want her to think I’m a murderer. How do you find her, Agent Morgan? Are the two of you friends?”

“I think she’s good at her job, and I enjoy talking to her,” York said carefully.

“Yeah. Yeah. She always brightens up a room,” George said. He was no longer being even vaguely subtle and York made a promise to himself not to let Emily find out that George had feelings for her. He imagined she would find the idea disturbing in light of recent revelations, even if she knew he wasn’t their killer. “I don’t know when I’ll see her,” George carried on. “You don’t want me working this case with you, I see that, and I don’t want to work under you. Besides, if I found out who killed Carol, I’d make sure they never saw sunlight again. I’d choke them with my bare hands. It’s better I keep out of it. So… when you see Emily, tell her I didn’t kill Carol. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“If you want me to, George, then I will,” York said. He found George’s insistence that he hadn’t hurt anyone to be an untruth, but he’d already told Emily that George had an alibi for the murder. He wouldn’t mention that he had done so after she expressed doubt over the man’s innocence.

“Good. That’s one thing you’re good for then, Agent Morgan,” George said, although his gruffness had melted slightly. It was meant as a joke. York laughed briefly in acknowledgement. “I won’t act like I could never kill someone. I would, if they did wrong. This whatever you’re calling it, Raincoat Killer – I’d kill them in a heartbeat if they crossed my path. And I hunt, deer and things. But to kill kids like Carol and Quint… it’s an abuse of power. That’s a line I wouldn’t cross.”

“No, I know that,” York said. He imagined that if the sheriff was their murderer, they would not be dealing with such carefully planned, clinical killings. He would picture George more as the type to kill in the heat of the moment. A passionate man. The dark, wrong kind of passionate man.

“Some people are sick, Agent Morgan. Some people go too far,” George said cryptically. “Hurting kids… you can’t do that. Why would anyone do that? You punch an adult in the face and they can defend themselves. You beat an adult and they can fight back. You can’t do that to kids. You can’t.” York got the feeling that George was no longer talking about the case.

“I agree,” he said, waiting. George was staring off into space again, and his words were growing slightly slurred. It occurred to York that George may have started drinking before he had arrived.

“You want to hear something, Agent York?” George asked, then pushed on ahead before he could hear an answer. “Some people… some people get this kind of twisted pleasure from hurting kids. Their own kids. And in a small town, you hear things. You hear things, right? But you know what they say? They say there’s nothing you can do. If there’s not any hard evidence, there’s nothing you can do. You just let it carry on and hope you don’t end up burying those kids you couldn’t fucking help. Did you know that, Agent York?”

“I… yes, I know that, George,” York said, wavering. Unfortunately, he had seen his share of people burying their children in his job. Despite his personal experience, he still thought it was harder than the other way around. He was sure Richard Dunn would agree.

“You should have met my mother,” George slurred bitterly. “She thought… as if I could understand how she thought. She tried to tell me. She tried to make me understand. How right she was, and how wrong I was. It was just a game to her, just a game.” George dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shivering. “Kids, adults. There was no difference as far as she was concerned. Everyone got treated the same. If you couldn’t grow up, if you couldn’t learn, you weren’t important. You didn’t deserve… sympathy.”

“George…” York said, but George ignored him and carried on.

“She used to slap me when I got grass on my clothes from playing in the garden, so I stopped going outside,” George said, his speech blurred by his hands and the alcohol. “That was when I was four or five or so… then when I got older she got angrier when I made mistakes. I was too old to be so dumb, she said. I tried to tell her I was sorry, but why would she care? I was still making mistakes, sorry didn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. She put me in the cellar overnight if I made a big mistake. Then she started… she… she would use tree branches. She broke them off the tree in our garden. She would hit me while I tried to tell her I was sorry, and it never mattered. It never stopped her. She didn’t care that I was sorry. But… sometimes, every other week or so, she’d stop, like she realised what she was doing, and she’d cry and tell me how sorry SHE was! I told her… I told her I understood. But inside, I always thought the same thing. I always thought – I thought sorry didn’t matter? I thought sorry didn’t matter, mother? So why are you sorry? Why are you sorry?”

York sat in stunned silence. He felt cold to his core. Of all the things George could have told him, he would not have expected this. The sheriff sat with his face still buried in his hands, shivering like he was still a scared little boy. York knew that this horrible confession was not meant for him, not really. George, he expected, barely remembered who he was talking to. He had been rubbed raw by the murders in his town, unable to stop the killer from lashing out at innocents despite his position of authority. He had been taken straight back to that time, years ago, when he’d been unable to stop his mother from lashing out at him. York felt guilty. He couldn’t make himself like George, and he knew he could never be his friend. But it did not stop his heart from hurting for the child George had been. The child he was being forced to remember every day this case went on unsolved. York could see why this was personal for the sheriff, and it wasn’t just because of Carol.

“George, I…” York tried to begin, but he struggled to find the right words. Any sympathy he expressed would, he felt, be rejected. “Where was your father?!”

“What a good fucking question,” George snorted. “Who knows. He left when I was too young to remember. My mother told me that was my fault too, although I don’t know now. I would have left her too, if I was him. I never would have looked back.”

“Perhaps,” York agreed carefully. “But he could have taken you with him. If he… if he knew.”

“If he knew!” George repeated in a mocking voice. Considering the circumstances, York chose not to take it personally. “He married her, he had to know who she was! Like he gave a shit. Who knows. Maybe he left before I was born. Maybe she fucking killed him and buried him in our garden, for all I know. He could be anyone. There’s no other Woodmans in town. He’s long gone, whoever he was. He never looked back.”

“I… I see,” York said. He was still shaken after George’s story. “I grew up without a father as well,” he said, trying to offer up some common ground. “He died when I was a child. My grandparents raised me after that.”

“You know who couldn’t have handled my mother?” George said, ignoring York entirely. Once again, it was just George in the room, lamenting his past into the void. “Thomas. If Thomas had had to grow up with that, he’d be dead. I don’t mean she would have killed him, even though that crying would have pissed her off. No, he would just curl up and die! He’s weak. Thomas is so weak, that’s why he’s angry. He’s the one who couldn’t help his sister. He was her big brother, he was the one who was meant to protect her. But did he? Did he fuck! Thomas is just a cry baby, he’s a weak little nothing. He couldn’t have handled my mother. But I did. I survived. Because I’m strong. I’m stronger than Thomas, stronger than Carol, stronger than my father. I managed to survive it and none of them could survive anything! They’re all weak! Weak!” George lifted his head and absently stroked a scar on his cheek whose origin story York suspected was not pleasant. “Weak… but I’m not. I’m strong. I’m stronger than anyone.”

“Yes,” York agreed uncomfortably. There was nothing else to say. George’s tone had shifted so suddenly from tortured, to torturer. There was a faint smile on his face, a dark, powerful smile that York recognised. A sick confidence. George had been weak as a child, but now, now he was the almighty sheriff, the power in Greenvale. More powerful than Thomas, than Carol. He could do what he wanted now. York considered the strong muscles of George’s arms, and wondered how long it had taken to build them up. No, George wasn’t weak anymore. He’d certainly made sure of that.

“Thomas never tried to be strong…” George muttered. “He deserves what he gets, if he lets himself stay that weak. He deserves what he gets.”

“George, I need to go,” York said quickly, getting out of his chair. “I… I don’t feel well. I need to leave.” George nodded vaguely, unconnected to the conversation. His mind was elsewhere.

“Yeah, yeah. Run away. Go home, Agent York. I’ll see you at the station.” York didn’t need to be told twice. He hurried out of the building, a queasy feeling in his stomach. He took a few deep breaths, letting the sharp, sudden coldness of the air shock him back to normal.

“I guess his mother’s lessons left a mark after all, Zach,” York said in a hushed whisper. “The weak rising up to become the strong. I’m not against that. But taking that power only to turn it against someone else? Now that’s just unacceptable.” He sighed. Whatever games had gone on between George and the MacLaines, he hoped they were over for good. George may disagree, but he felt that Thomas deserved better. Carol had too. It was just a shame she’d never managed to ask for help. At least George’s power over her was finally cut off. It was the tiniest sliver of a silver lining.

“Do you think our killer thinks the same way as George, Zach? York asked himself. “Are they the strong overtaking the weak, or the weak rising up against the strong?” He shook his head slowly, taking another breath. “Either way… they’ve made the wrong choice. This could never be the right thing to do. It doesn’t matter what their reasons are.”

He took a moment to look up at the sky. There were so many more stars visible in Greenvale than he was used to in the city. A whole tapestry.

“There are some things people do that there’ll never be a good enough reason for, Zach,” he said, finally.


	25. Breakfast

Chapter Twenty-Five. [ Breakfast ]

The next day, when York arrived at the sheriff’s department, he found to his lack of surprise that Emily was the only one who had come into work. She was sitting in the conference room, eating something.

“What’s for breakfast, Emily?” he asked. She mumbled through a mouthful of food before realising she would have to chew her food before she could answer.

“Well, Thomas isn’t here, so I brought my own,” she explained. “It’s a bagel sandwich, with some egg, tomato, lettuce… it’s not like his cooking, but it’s pretty good.” York took a second to look at what was sitting on Emily’s plate. If she had told him it was a fruitcake or a hamburger he would have been equally certain she was telling the truth. The brown and black mass looked as if it had been in an oven long enough to graduate from college.

“Emily, how about I buy us both some breakfast at the diner?” York suggested. “It’ll be on the FBI.” He didn’t give her a chance to protest before he was whisking her out the door.

A quick walk later, and they were at the A&G diner. Emily stopped to fetch some menus while York went ahead to find them a booth. He settled on an empty one tucked into the corner. As he sat down and moved across the seat, his foot connected with something under the table. He bent down to see what he had kicked. There was a little wooden carving on the floor. He reached for it and pulled it out. It was a bird. He turned it over in his hand. Someone must have dropped it at some point and forgotten about it, abandoning it to the darkness underneath the table. York quite liked it. He tucked it into his jacket pocket just before Emily came over with the menus.

“So have you been to see Thomas?” she asked as she sat down. “I went yesterday afternoon. He seems a little better. I know you can’t expect much more than that yet.”

“Yes, I did,” York said. “I suppose this isn’t the sort of thing you get over in a day.”

“No, it’s not,” Emily said sadly. “Getting through something like that… takes time.” She looked gloomily down at the table and York wondered if he was meant to offer a platitude. “York,” she added after a pause. “You told me that, well, that your parents died when you were young.”

“I did, and they did,” York said. He had a momentary flashback to his conversation with George the night before. How he had tried to reach out over their shared history, and been ignored. Thankfully, he thought now. The last thing he wanted was for the sheriff to make any effort to actually be his friend.

“I thought about telling you then, but… it didn’t feel right to me,” Emily said slowly. “Anyway, after everything, I just wanted to tell you that I also –”

“Hi! Are you two ready to order?” York and Emily both swivelled around to see Olivia standing next to the table, looking chipper. York looked at Emily, but the thread had been lost in the moment. She was already reaching for a menu, trying to put her aborted confession behind her.

“I was thinking something with eggs…” Emily said, purposefully distracted. York decided to let it go. She would tell him whatever she’d started to tell him later if she wanted to. He could be patient when he needed to be. As Emily pointed out what she wanted from the menu, he turned to Olivia.

“Olivia,” York said, and she looked at him with her usual wide-eyed stare. “I hope things are going well for you at the moment. It must be difficult. I know you just lost your waitress, so I’m sure there’s an extra strain right now.”

“Oh, well!” Olivia laughed uncertainly. “You make it sound like Anna died! Her mother just wasn’t sure about her working here right now, after everything that’s happened. Hopefully in time she’ll be able to come back to work.”

“Yes, when I manage to identify the killer,” York said.

“Er, yes,” Olivia agreed. “So, Agent York! What can I get you for breakfast?” She tapped on her notepad with her pen, expectantly.

“Has it been difficult coping with the extra workload?” York asked, with no regard for breakfast etiquette at all. Olivia’s face fell as she realised he wasn’t going to drop it. “How are you and Nick managing?”

“Nick and I are fine!” Olivia said, stress fractures beginning to show in her voice. Emily shot York a questioning look, but he had an idea in mind, and he wanted to see where things went.

“I’m just curious, Olivia,” York asked. “But do you know where Nick was the morning of Carol’s murder? Between eight and ten.” Olivia dropped the pen she was holding and had to fumble around on the floor to find it, her fingers clearly shaking as she came back into view.

“No… I think he was here, at the diner. We were probably both here. I don’t remember exactly.” She tapped the pen absently against the pad, the little thump thumps sounding like distant rain.

“Thank you, Olivia,” York said with a wide, not entirely friendly smile. “And for breakfast… hmm. Would you mind if I spoke to Nick about what’s good today?”

“S-sure,” Olivia said. “I’ll get him.” She retreated to the kitchen and York listened interestedly as he heard Nick complain in a rising voice about having to leave the kitchen to talk to ‘that entitled FBI snob’. Olivia, unlike her husband, managed to keep her half of the conversation to a stressed whisper, and York could not hear what she said that finally convinced Nick to leave the sanctuary of his kitchen. When Nick did appear, it was with angrily crossed arms and a look of inimitable impatience.

“Get to the point,” he said crossly. York obeyed.

“Nick, were you at the diner the morning Carol was killed? Between eight and ten, or around that sort of time. Do you remember?”

“Excuse me?” Nick scoffed. “You’re really asking me this? Huh. Yeah. Yeah I was here, I opened up. I’m sure plenty of people can confirm that.”

“What about Olivia?” York asked. “Can she confirm it?”

“Oh, she wasn’t here,” Nick said at once. “No, she showed up late that day. Hell if I know where she got to, she said something about fresh lettuce, but she didn’t come in with any. And it felt like almost as soon as she arrived, Sallie Graham came in to drag her daughter back inside like it’s the eighteen-hundreds. So I guess I dropped it.”

“That seems unusual,” York said, internally making a note of what the two Cormacks had said, and how thoroughly they had debunked the other’s account.

“Not for her, not lately,” Nick scoffed. “Who knows where she gets to. Olivia’s like a dropped fork these days, you never know where she’ll land.”

“And you have to be wary not to step on her,” York added. Nick frowned at him, unamused.

“What did you want to eat?” he asked flatly. Clearly, the discussion was over.

“I feel daring today,” York said, smiling pleasantly as if he hadn’t just interrogated the chef. “I think I’ll give that sinner’s sandwich a try.”

“The what?” Nick asked, sighing in annoyance. “This isn’t a Starbucks. The food doesn’t have fancy names, just tell me what you want.”

“Harry Stewart’s regular order. The turkey sandwich with the jam and the cereal,” York said. Nick shook his head in disbelief.

“You nicknamed it!” he muttered.

“Surely you’re the only one who can Nick-name the items on the menu here,” York said smugly. Nick glared at him as if he was hoping to set him on fire. “No?” York asked, smiling. Nick walked away without giving him the satisfaction of an answer. York chuckled to himself. He had known the joke would irritate the intemperate chef. He had been unable to resist teasing him.

“Hey!” Emily hissed. “When you leave town, I still want to be able to eat here! Try not to piss everyone off, or at least do it while I’m not with you?”

“Sorry, Emily,” York apologised. “I had to ask them where they were, although I suppose I could have had less fun with it.”

“Maybe!” Emily sighed. But her eyes regained that excited glimmer a second later, and she was back to her usual self. “Do you think they’re involved? Nick is always a little aggressive, but I’m not sure he’d be my pick for our killer.”

“Mine neither,” York agreed. “All I know right now is that all is not well in the Cormacks’ marriage, and it seems that extends to their ability to keep a story straight. Did you notice that Olivia claimed to be in the diner at the time I asked her about, but Nick disagreed?”

“I did…” Emily said uncertainly. “But I doubt that means anything. Can you imagine Olivia doing… that… to Carol? Or Quint?” She shuddered.

“I can imagine anyone doing anything to anyone,” York said. Then he reconsidered his phrasing. “In the sense that, during my time at the FBI, I’ve met all varieties of villains. One of them gave me the scar on my cheek.” He pointed to the two unhealed scratches under his left eye. Emily looked where he gestured.

“A woman gave you that?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” York acknowledged. “But it’ll heal in time.”

“Yeah, it looks like it will,” Emily agreed. “That doesn’t change my mind though. I think we’re looking for a different sort of killer.”

“Probably, Emily, but I’d like to keep all my opinions as just that until we have more evidence. For now we’re just bees, gathering our honey. Adding it all to the proof pot.”

“Sure,” Emily laughed. As she laughed, York noticed she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. It was a small sign that her expression was genuine. It made him smile himself. A clear, pleasant smile beyond a simple pleasantry. A sign of genuine peace, momentary as it might be. When the moment passed, he carried on updating Emily on the new information he’d learnt.

“I saw Nick arguing with Diane at the art gallery,” he said. “Later the same day that Carol died. It seemed to be a personal spat. There’s a chance the two of them are having an affair.”

“What –!” Emily gasped. “I can’t imagine… well, I suppose I can. Anything’s possible.” She shook her head, wearing the expression of guilty sympathy felt for another person whose secrets you shouldn’t know. “It would explain why Olivia seems scattered.”

“Yes, it would,” York agreed. “As I said, it’s just a chance. But something is definitely happening between the two of them. I’ll find out what it is, in time.”

“Since you came to Greenvale, I feel like I’m learning all kinds of things I never suspected about people I’ve known for years,” Emily said. She had on a half-smile. “I don’t know if I’m better off knowing or not. I’ve never trusted gossip. I’m kind of nervous about what else we’ll find out before you leave… although I guess I’m just glad you’re not investigating me.”

“Don’t worry, Emily, your secrets shall stay your own,” York said. “I’m only interested in our killer. Sadly, until I know who that is, innocent people inevitably will come into the spotlight. But only those who have something to hide.”

“It sounds like you trust me completely,” Emily laughed softly.

“I do trust you,” York said seriously. “Of course I do.”

“Oh…” Emily said in a very light voice, looking down at the table, her face colouring slightly with faded pink. She tucked her hair behind her ear and, although she was still averting her eyes, York saw the smile that lit up her face. He felt the warmth of it carry through into his chest where it rested, straining his heart, catching his breath.

“Here you are,” Nick said, emerging at exactly the wrong moment with two plates in his hands. “A normal breakfast for Deputy Wyatt, and a write-off for the FBI Agent who continues to prove he doesn’t know what’s good for him.” He dropped the plates down on the table and Emily reached protectively for her food in case it was tossed off the edge. York looked down at what he’d been brought as Nick disappeared. It was a single triangle half of a sandwich, oozing with and slathered in bright red jam, looking like the bread had been soaked in the fake blood so popular in trashy eighties horror movies. He could see layers of turkey inside, peeking out. He brought it to his mouth with mixed expectations. However, when he bit into it, he was genuinely surprised.

“This is really good!” he exclaimed. Emily sighed and shook her head to herself. “I’m serious!” he went on. “Wow, it really is. It blends so well!” The mixture of textures and flavours was unusual, but for some reason it felt perfectly balanced. Emily didn’t seem to believe him.

“Sure it is, York,” she said. She reached for the ketchup and began smacking it out over her eggs, not even waiting to prevent the ketchup water from dribbling out first. York curled up his face in disgust.

“Emily, what possesses you to ruin good food that way?” he asked. She looked up at him sharply.

“You’re judging me?!” she said in horror. “You’re eating a joke sandwich! You know there’s no way Harry actually eats it, he can’t do. He probably just forces Nick to make it for his own amusement.”

“Maybe Michael eats it,” York suggested. Emily snorted, spreading out the mass of ketchup with her fork. York could barely watch.

“Please,” Emily said. “As if. Can you imagine eating something that slathered in jam in a white suit?”

“No,” York said. “But I also can’t imagine eating five pounds of scrambled eggs and ketchup before midday.” Emily smiled cockily at him and shoved a forkful of the mess into her mouth. York responded by taking another huge bite of his sandwich. The two of them grinned at each other, unaware that they both had red stains on their chins from their respective meals, but both mentally thinking how silly the other looked. In an endearing way, naturally.


	26. Abandoned Car

Chapter Twenty-Six. [ Abandoned Car ]

“So, where shall we go next?” York asked as he turned the key in the ignition. Emily hmm-ed over the question in the passenger seat. The investigation was at something of a loose end. The few people who they needed answers from weren’t willing to open up, and short of arresting them, there was no way to force the issue.

“If only we knew more about Carol’s personal life,” Emily sighed. “The people she was close to, and especially the people she hated. I just feel like we’ve already explored those avenues.”

“You mean Becky and Diane?” York asked. Emily nodded. “Yes. It does seem as if neither of them desperately wants to speak with us. With Becky, I can understand it. She’s been through a lot lately, and she’s still broken down about Quint’s death. It might be a while before she leaves that house still. And besides… when we spoke to her, it sounded as if she expected Carol to come back from the dead and finish her revenge.”

“Yeah, she’s not in a good place,” Emily agreed. “I know I wouldn’t want to cross Carol as a zombie.”

“Do you like zombie movies, Emily?” York asked.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, actually, I do. Especially those older Romero movies. The effects aren’t always perfect, but I like the plots. Still, we should focus on the investigation for now.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” York agreed reluctantly. “Well, while I can understand why Becky isn’t willing to talk with us, I don’t think the same courtesy can be extended to Diane. Surely it’s in her best interests to tell us what she was doing when Carol died. Instead, she treats this investigation like a game. And she seems to think she’s holding all the pieces.”

“That’s just who she is,” Emily sighed. “It’s how she’s always been, from what I understand.”

“Still,” York said. “I think between them, the two Ames sisters know a lot more than they want to share. I can’t say I fully trust either of them. If they just opened up, I have a feeling this case would be solved by tonight.”

“People always know more than they think they do,” Emily reasoned. “But unless you have police training, you don’t know what’s important. That’s why we have to ask the right questions.”

“Exactly, Emily!” York said, sticking a finger up in the air to punctuate. “And right now, the question is ‘where can we find more information about Carol’s personal life’, isn’t it?”

“I suppose at her apartment,” Emily suggested. “But we can’t go in without Thomas’ permission, because it’s connected to his. It would be like breaking into his home.”

“A good point,” York agreed. “So we’ll have to find another place where she spent a lot of time, that might contain personal belongings, and that we’ll be able to access.” Emily thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers as the answer came to her.

“Her car?” she said. York nodded.

“Yes. I trust it’s still where she left it?”

“It is,” Emily confirmed. “Normally George would arrange for Thomas to move it, but let’s face it, neither one of them has been prepared to do that lately. It’s a good thing they haven’t taken it to the junkyard. Shall we go over there now?”

“Let’s,” York said, turning out of the parking lot. It was time to return to the lake.

♦ ♦ ♦

Carol’s car was exactly where it had been when they had last seen it, the morning her body was found. The front tires were still stuck in the mud of the lakebed, water gently lapping against them like a bather’s legs. The place where Carol’s body had lain was still obvious, the mud disturbed and flattened. It was eerie, partially just because someone could walk past and not know what had happened. To the uninformed, it was nothing. That made it worse somehow. In a week, a month, it would all be washed away. She would never have died here at all.

“It almost doesn’t feel right,” Emily said. “Going through her car, I mean. Even though she’s dead. I’ve never had to do something like this before, not really.”

“It’s harder because she’s someone you knew,” York said gently. “Working in cities, I never know the victims whose lives I end up walking through. And I never know their killers. I admit, having got to know Carol a little before she died makes this feel… uncomfortable.”

“Let’s just get it over with,” Emily sighed. She approached the car and tried the handle, opening it easily. Presumably the killer had left it unlocked when they ran off. She stuck her head into the body of the car and immediately withdrew it, wincing. “We should have checked this earlier,” she moaned. “It’s disgusting.”

“It is summer,” York said. He moved past her and looked inside the car. There was a tarp strewn over the backseat, where presumably Carol’s body had been during transit. The dark stains etched into the fabric were probably what had bothered Emily. Blood sitting out in this warm weather, even if it was only a trace, was never going to be welcoming. He could hear flies buzzing in the suffocating stale air of the car. It reminded him of another case, years ago, where they had found the body of a missing amateur actress in the trunk of a car. Unfortunately, when they found her, she had been missing for nearly two months. And probably dead for that entire length of time. It was not a pleasant memory. The smell still haunted him.

“Do you see anything?” Emily asked, fingers clamped over her nose.

“Not that it’s surprising, but she was killed before they brought her here,” York said. “Her body was wrapped in that tarp, and our killer dumped her in the lake when they arrived. Then they ran away from their handiwork.”

“Nasty,” Emily said. “Do you think there’ll be fingerprints?”

“I doubt it, but we’ll bring the tarp back just in case,” York said. “And check the steering wheel as well. I doubt our killer is that foolish, after how careful they’ve been so far, but we’ll see. Now, let’s see what else we have.” He looked into the front of the car, trying to make out any useful signs. Nothing jumped out at him. Their killer really did have an almost medical precision with how they’d gone about their crimes. This case wouldn’t go to court on a messy fingerprint, that much was certain. He leant through to open the glove box and see if there was anything interesting inside. There were cigarettes, some used and smashed into the bottom of the glove box, and a couple of half-empty packets strewn about. There were loose sticks of chewing gum and a couple of bottle caps that indicated Carol may have enjoyed drinking beer while she was driving. York couldn’t say he approved. There was only one thing of note. A folded piece of paper, which he took out and unfurled.

“What is that?” Emily asked, coming to read over his shoulder. York shuddered internally as he recognised the same looping, elaborate handwriting he had first seen on the note left at the scene of Quint’s murder. He looked over the words. It was another note from the killer.

“The Rebirth of the Raincoat Killer,” York read in a troubled voice. “On rainy nights. They eat the seeds. They die for him. Another step closer to victory.” As with the last one, the note ended abruptly where the page had been torn.

“It looks like they’ve embraced the title,” Emily said. “We’re not dealing with just a fan anymore.”

“But the real Raincoat Killer,” York finished. “Yes, you’re right. Whoever is doing this is having fun with it. I’m tempted to check the local Halloween stores to see if anyone’s bought the oversized raincoat and axe to complete their gruesome role-playing game.”

“This is scary,” Emily said. “Really. It’s much worse than just thinking someone killed Quint and Carol out of spite. I can understand hatred, but… this is something else.”

“No, don’t forget why they’re really doing this,” York said immediately. “Whoever’s done this has a motive, and I will not accept that it begins and ends with wanting to dress up like a fairy tale character. The motive may seem obscure to us. It may even be something that normal people cannot understand. But there will be one. There is always a motive with a criminal as careful as this. Random acts of violence are not planned in advance, they’re done in the heat of the moment. No, Emily, I promise you this. The murderer has a motive for what they’re doing beyond this Raincoat Killer charade. They chose Quint and Carol for a reason. We will find out what that reason was when we catch them.”

“I hope so,” Emily sighed. “York. You said you’ve seen other cases with those… red seeds, right? Were those just random acts of violence, or were they like this?” York took a second to remove a cigarette from the packet in his jacket pocket. He felt the need for it.

“That’s what’s strange,” he said. “Largely, those were just random incidents. The killers we brought in didn’t seem to know why they had chosen their targets, or even really why they’d done it at all. They were violent, unstable people, many of whom have since killed themselves in prison. None of them showed the intelligence of our new Raincoat Killer. They were easy to find.” He lit the cigarette and placed it between his lips.

“The new Raincoat Killer. We’re really going to have to call them that,” Emily said unhappily. York seconded her discomfort. He never liked giving in to what killer’s wanted, up to and including what they wanted to be called. Sadly, this case seemed to be so thoroughly wrapped up in the legend’s titular raincoat that he couldn’t think of any alternative. The Raincoat Killer it was. Their adversary.

The lake spread out before them in silence. It was the only real witness to what had happened that day, the only one who had seen the face of the person who had abandoned Carol’s body on its shore. Lake Knowledge. Knowledge that could never be extracted, never shared. Meaningless.

“I hope we catch them soon,” Emily said in a small voice. “If they kill again… if they manage to kill someone else… I don’t think I’ll forgive myself.” She had picked up on the tone of the note as well then, York thought. There had definitely been a fairly heavy implication that the killer wasn’t finished yet. He could do little to reassure her.

“I do too, Emily,” he agreed. “For now, I think you should get that tarp back to the sheriff’s department. Who knows, we might get lucky.”

“Lucky,” Emily repeated. “Lucky.” It didn’t even sound like a word in her mouth. It was an already broken hope. A futile cry, swallowed up by the air a second after it was said. Lucky. It meant nothing, not anymore.

♦ ♦ ♦

After driving Emily back to the sheriff’s department so she could begin arranging to collect the evidence, York drove on to the Milk Barn. He wanted something to eat for lunch and he thought that if he went back to the diner, Nick might actually hurt him. He just couldn’t seem to get on the man’s good side. Not that he was trying very hard. And he had accused him of having an affair. Maybe it was understandable that Nick didn’t like him.

“Oh well, Zach,” York muttered, smiling to himself. “I didn’t come to Greenvale to make friends.” He hesitated. “Although Emily is a good friend. I think. It’s been a long time since I actually felt that safe with someone. Just… talking. It doesn’t matter, let’s stop talking about this.”

He climbed out of the car and went inside to see Keith in his usual place, bobbing his head to imaginary music behind the counter. Although muffled, tinny rock music played through the Milk Barn speakers, Keith wasn’t moving to the rhythm of it at all. He was clearly remembering a completely different song.

“It must be nice to be that removed from reality, right Zach?” York muttered.

“Agent York!” Lilly said, catching sight of him and walking over, a warm smile on her face. “How are you, hon? Have you been making any progress?” As she waited for him to answer, she absently wiped her hands off on the apron she was wearing around her waist. She had something on her hands, baby food or something like it.

“Did it get away from you?” York joked. She glanced down at her hand and laughed.

“Oh, silly!” she scolded, carrying on her light, soothing laughter. “I was trying to clear out our storeroom by myself, and when I moved a box, well, I suppose Keith must have put it away the wrong way up. It all came apart and a few jars spilled out onto the floor. It’s a mess! I don’t suppose you might help me, if you have a spare moment…? I’m sure someone as strong and organised as you would be able to clean up a messy storeroom in no time!” She fixed him with a smirk that made York think her husband probably did anything he was asked. He looked away, chewing on his lip distractedly and hoping it wasn’t too obvious he was avoiding her gaze.

“I’m afraid with the murder investigation, I don’t really have the time to pick up a part time job,” York explained. Lilly laughed good-humouredly, brushing it off.

“If the FBI ever kicks you out, I could definitely use a stock boy with your build,” she said. York could feel that his cheeks were flushing. Lilly certainly had a way of making the most mundane things sound like something else. He expected she and Keith were very happily married.

“Thank you, Lilly. It’s good to know I have options into retirement,” he said. Before Lilly managed to make any more remarks to catch him off guard, he caught sight of what had to be a ghost. He couldn’t believe that what he was seeing was real. Lilly followed the direction he was looking and let out a small, happy sigh.

“Yes, isn’t it good?” she said. “Becky came back to work today.” York could see that. Standing across the store, slumped forward, hair hanging down over her face and a broom in hand, was Becky. She was sweeping the floor. “Of course we haven’t said a word about Quint,” Lilly carried on. “She still seems off, poor thing, but she must be feeling a little better if she’s back at work. I hope so, anyway!”

“Yes… I suppose so,” York agreed. He considered going over and speaking to her, but he knew what would happen. If he pressed, Becky would fold, and retreat back into her mansion for who knows how much longer. If she was out, it was good. Maybe she would start opening up about other things as well. Still, it was odd. He felt that he had only just finished telling Emily that Becky would likely not stop hiding herself away anytime soon, but there wasn’t very much he could do about it. He let it go, saying a goodbye to Lilly and going over to the counter.

“Hey, man!” Keith said when he saw him. “What can I getcha today, FBI?”

“Some doughnuts, a takeaway coffee, and I suppose something healthier… do you have any fruit?” York asked. Keith thought for a second, his lips twitching as he read out a list in his head.

“We got pickles, man!” he said triumphantly. “You like pickles? You should try the brand we get here in the store, they’re too good!”

“All right, fine… that,” York said. He felt as if he might regret agreeing to Keith’s uncomfortably intense pickle-pushing later. He thought pickles were healthy, though. Didn’t they used to be vegetables? Keith went to round up everything York had asked for and returned a moment later with his arms full of squashed doughnuts.

“Here you go,” Keith said, piling the food up on the counter and stopping to lick the sugar off his fingers. York decided not to mention it. He knew it would mean explaining to Keith why someone might not want their store clerk to clean their hands the same way a cat would, and it might take all day. He simply smiled back at the other man, keeping the peace.

“Keith,” he said. “You remember that story you told me before? The one about the –”

“That gnarly dead babe and her boy toy, right?” Keith laughed. “Yeah, sure I remember, man. Why? Did you want to hear another? Oh, dude, I have so many stories like that!”

“Actually…” York said slowly. It had occurred to him just earlier, but he was still unsure about actually asking the question. “I want to know a particular story.”

“Shoot, man, what is it?” Keith asked obligingly.

“Do you know anything about a man that appears in the graveyard?” York asked. Brian’s silhouette came into his mind. The uncomfortably pale skin, the dark, empty eyes, that dirty clothing. He had to force himself to remain composed, suppressing a shudder. “Maybe one called Brian,” he added. Keith stared into space with his mouth slightly open, searching, York supposed, for a matching story in his memory. Eventually, something seemed to click.

“Yeah, man, kind of,” Keith said. “I heard people saying about the graveyard being haunted and stuff.” York was tempted to roll his eyes at the stereotype that lacked any fleshing out.

“Surely that’s something people always say,” York reasoned.

“Naw, naw,” Keith argued, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. “There’s this old shack there, right? I’ve heard people say someone’s living in it. But not like, a normal dude. Like a ghost. There’s nothing in there, nothing you’d need to actually live in a place, so how come at night there’s someone moving around in there, huh? Man, it’s not normal, it’s a ghost.”

“I see,” York said, considering. If other people had seen Brian in the graveyard, ghost or not, then at least he alone wasn’t losing his mind. At least, not in any new and exciting way. “That sounds about right, yes.”

“Hey! What? You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Oh man!” Keith looked up at him with childlike delight. “What was it like, dude? Oh man, I’ve always wanted to see a real ghost. I never have, not for real. I love all the stories, but… you actually did! You saw the ghost! You gotta tell me everything, man!”

“I don’t know that I did,” York said quickly, trying to backpedal. “No, I was only asking.”

“What name did you call it?” Keith asked, not to be deterred. “Brian? Oh shit, that is so cool! You must have talked to it, right? It told you its name! You’re like… friends with a ghost! Was this Brian guy friendly? This is too much!” Keith was beginning to sound a lot like a child dissecting a tooth fairy encounter, and York was eager to get away. He wasn’t comfortable talking about what had happened with Brian, and he still wasn’t completely sure what it was that _had_ happened. He just knew that here, under the garish grocery store lighting with the muffled instrumental to Disorder playing in the background, wasn’t the place to figure it out.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” York said firmly. “I think I heard the same rumour as you, that’s all. I certainly haven’t seen any ghosts.” He walked away before Keith could interrogate him further, although he heard the man protesting and calling him back as he left the store. He really must be desperate to see a ghost for himself. York wondered if Keith would be out at the graveyard tonight, staking it out in the hopes of catching sight of Brian. He doubted Lilly would be too fond of the idea.

As York stood outside, he realised he hadn’t stopped to get his food. He couldn’t go back in now, not without being badgered by Keith for more paranormal titbits. He frowned to himself bitterly.

“Well then, Zach, it looks like we’ll be relying on the vending machine today,” he sighed. “Remind me not to piss off everyone in town capable of putting two pieces of bread together in future, or at least not in the same day.” He reached for a cigarette and tucked it between his lips, lighting it and going back to the car. “We’ll retreat to the hotel for now,” he said to himself. “Maybe Polly will take pity on us and make us something for lunch.”


	27. Dinner and a Show

Chapter Twenty-Seven. [ Dinner and a Show ]

When York returned to the hotel, he ran into Polly in the foyer. She did indeed take pity on him, and agree to make him something to eat with no resistance. Quite the opposite, actually, as as soon as he mentioned not having eaten, she insisted on taking the opportunity to cook for him. Apparently she missed the days when her cooking was admired by a multitude of guests. York happily accepted. It really was the least he could do for the old woman. He went to his room to wait.

Inside the room, he remembered the wooden carving he had taken from the diner and pulled it out of his jacket to have another look. He turned it around in his hands. It was not well-made, roughly carved by an amateur hand and unfinished. Whoever had made it had clearly intended to add beads for eyes at some point. There were holes drilled for the purpose, and yet they were currently only empty sockets, staring sadly, incompletely, back at him. The bird looked rather pitiful like that, and he felt a little sympathetic that its creator hadn’t cared enough to finish it off. No wonder it had ended up abandoned. Still, it was an interesting enough thing to find. York placed it on the desk beside the typewriter and admired it. In the cutesy setting of the hotel furniture, it looked much more at home.

“I wonder who dropped it, Zach?” York asked aloud. “I doubt they’re looking for it, though. It’ll be nice to have a souvenir from Greenvale that doesn’t get clipped into a case file. Almost reminds me of the kind of town this might be normally, without the murders. It’s a shame how thoroughly this case seems to be destroying this town. No, let me be fair, Zach. It’s destroying my image of it. I’m certain Greenvale will repair itself after we’re gone.” He hoped so, anyway. He’d seen the effects the Raincoat Killer crimes had had on people. He didn’t imagine Thomas would be repairing himself anytime soon.

A while later he was invited through to the dining room by Polly, who had made a real effort over the meal. She had cooked fish, which she proudly told him was from the local rivers, with salad, potatoes and garnishes. There was a fresh cup of hot coffee waiting for him as well. York was thankful that he hadn’t settled for the mashed up doughnuts Keith had offered him in the end. He sat down to eat.

“So Polly,” York said loudly, calling to her down at the far end of the long table where she had chosen to sit yet again. “How have you been?”

“Mr. Morgan, you can’t just bring that up over lunch!” Polly laughed. York sighed. He supposed her hearing hadn’t improved since they last spoke. He wondered how much clearer he could be. “Oh, I heard about that poor girl!” Polly added suddenly, hanging her head. “That really is terrible. How is her dear brother coping?”

“I don’t think Thomas is handling it well,” York said. He knew it was not the right answer, but it was the honest one, and he didn’t see the point in mincing words. Polly gently shook her head.

“He’s such a sensitive boy,” Polly said. “His mother used to say so. She used to talk about how Carol was the tough one, and Thomas was the sensitive one. Of course, that’s a long time ago now. I wonder what she makes of this? Surely she’ll be coming back to Greenvale soon to sort out the funeral, poor dear.” York vaguely remembered that Emily had mentioned the MacLaines’ mother had moved out of state some time ago. He doubted Thomas had called to give her the news yet. As far as she knew, she still had two living children. York thought it was funny how he, a total stranger, knew the news days before Carol’s own mother found out.

“It’s tragic,” York shouted, not wanting to be misunderstood during this delicate conversation. Thankfully, Polly seemed to hear him well enough.

“It really is,” she agreed. “All this loss of life. It used to be such a lovely town…” She trailed off into thought for a moment, then came back with a stony look on her face. “Mr. Morgan, you will catch this man, won’t you?”

“Now Polly,” York said loudly, “We don’t know anything about the killer’s identity yet. There’s no guarantee we’re dealing with a man.”

“No, I suppose not…” she said wistfully. “But you will catch them? Do promise me you will.”

“I will catch the killer, Polly,” York promised. “I won’t leave town until I do.”

“Now, now!” Polly scolded, suddenly laughing. “I understand that times are tough, but there’s still no excuse to think such things! I’m sure you’ll manage without anything of that nature, won’t you, Mr. Morgan?” She dissolved into amused giggling, and York decided not to speak for a while, lest he make any other accidental slip-ups. It didn’t seem to matter much. Polly kept chatting away about various things. She told him a little about the town’s clock tower that had been built during the nineteen fifties, some stories from her hotel business back when there had still been many regular guests, and another story about the time she entered into a beauty contest. Apparently she had lost the title of Miss. Greenvale to Sigourney. York couldn’t picture it, but then, he didn’t really want to. By the time they finally finished their lunch and Polly finished with her many stories, he realised it was already mid-afternoon. He went back to his room to call Emily and check in with her.

“Hello?” Emily said down the line when she picked up. York smiled involuntarily at the sound of her voice. He almost forgot why he had called.

“Yes, Emily, it’s York,” he said. “I wanted to know if you found any fingerprints on that tarp from Carol’s car.”

“No, nothing,” Emily said regretfully. “And nothing on the steering wheel either. It was definitely wiped down, or we’d at least have found Carol’s prints. This killer knows what they’re doing.”

“Anyone who’s watched a few episodes of a television crime series knows to look out for fingerprints, Emily,” York reasoned. “This alone doesn’t make them any smarter than most people.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Emily agreed. “Anyway… Thomas called to say he won’t be coming in tomorrow either. I told him that was fine. I haven’t heard anything from George, I don’t know what he’s doing.” York recalled their evening out together and frowned at the memory. George was not himself. He had lost control. York doubted they’d be seeing much of him for a while.

“That’s fine, Emily,” he said. “I won’t come into the department tomorrow either. I’m going to do a little investigating of my own.” He hesitated. “Why don’t you take the day off? Surely this has been just as hard on you as it has on the others.” Emily didn’t say anything for a while, and he began to worry he’d made a mistake.

“All right,” she eventually agreed. “I’ll do that. Thank you. Take care of yourself, then.” She hung up a second later and York carefully put down the receiver. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Zach, I need to talk to you about something,” he said solemnly. “I know you’re my only real friend, and I’ve always liked it that way. But I’m starting to think that I might want to be friends with Emily, too. I know, I know. We don’t live in Greenvale, and it might be complicated, but I’d still like to try. Do you think she’d come to the hotel and watch a few movies with me? I haven’t seen anywhere to rent tapes in town, but that’s okay. We could just watch what’s on. Although… Zach, do you think she’d take offence if I asked her to come over here? I wonder if she’d take it the wrong way. Maybe I should go over to her house instead, if I can find a place to rent videotapes. Do you think she has a VCR? She probably does. I wonder where she lives.”

York slumped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He liked the idea. He might have to suggest it the next time he saw her. He’d have to pick the perfect movies. Nothing they wouldn’t feel comfortable talking over a little, but also nothing too embarrassingly bad. It was a hard choice, but he would manage. Out of habit, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV. When it came to life, it was showing one of the old black and white horror movies that cheap television stations loved thanks to the lack of royalties. He thought he recognised it vaguely. Before he knew it, he had sat through the whole thing, and another few episodes of an old sitcom as well. He realised that he was just putting off the last thing he had meant to do today.

“All right, Zach,” he sighed. “No more playing around. We need to go and see him.” His conversation with Keith earlier had reassured him of one thing at least. Brian was real, in one way or another. And if he was real, then he could be useful.

♦ ♦ ♦

By the time York got to the graveyard, it was raining heavily and nearly nine in the evening. He knew he shouldn’t have put it off as much as he had, but what was done was done. At least he wasn’t the kind of person to be frightened off by the prospect of ghosts, he thought, as he began to walk up the hill to the shack. After all, if he was, there would be no point in making the trip. When he reached the shack, he tried looking through the window. It was grimy and dark. Probably another inaccuracy in Keith’s stories. He doubted anyone actually came out here to watch for ghosts. It was more likely that someone had seen Brian once and the urban legend had grown out of that one instance. He found the door handle and went inside.

The interior of the small wooden shack was unimpressive. York thought that Keith had at least been right that no-one could live here. There was a metal bedframe with no mattress, a mouldering cabinet, and a shovel with a handle covered in splinters that he dreaded the idea of touching. Currently, there was no Brian.

“Brian?” York called. “Are you out here, Brian?” There was no reply. “Gee, Zach,” York mused. “I wonder what he does with all his free time.” He smiled, although it was hard to ignore the discomfort he felt being here again. It was a fair question though. Where did Brian go when he wasn’t here? “He probably just turns invisible. That’s what ghosts do, isn’t it, Zach?” York said to himself. The suggestion suddenly made him wonder if Brian was there, watching him with hidden eyes, and he tugged his jacket around him defensively, feeling paranoid. He hated feeling watched.

There was a noise outside the shack. A vague rustling sound close by, the sound of something moving in the grass. York checked his holster and opened the door. The shadows were here. From the hilltop, he could see a small procession of them, marching up the path to the graveyard from the treeline. Marching was too precise a word. They spilled from the ground like loose teeth and shivered in his direction without moving their legs. There were five at any time, although they briefly faded in and out of sight, pooling on the ground like milk spilling in slow motion before rising again. The leader of the pack was only a few feet away, disturbing the grass as it edged towards him.

York stared into its face. The black, eyeless sockets seemed to bleed down its face, never disappearing but never stationary. Its mouth was open in a silent howl, teeth and tongue twitching like television static. York wondered, as he had done before, what would happen if he let it catch him. He had never done so. The fear was always too strong, and despite looking like un-killable horror movie villains, they were actually fairly easy to dispose of. Of course the day may yet come when he found himself surrounded by them. A huge wave of arms reaching out and breaking against him, pulling him under the ghoulish surface into oblivion.

“Do you think they would kill us, Zach?” York whispered. “Or do you think they’d just disappear when they touched me?” As he wondered, the figure in front of him twisted, tilting round and round so that its spine was twisted into a corkscrew. It planted its feet and its arms reached forward, lengthening as they grasped for him. York panicked. He pulled out his gun and shot the warped creature in the head, watching it pop like boiling oil and turn into a black liquid before dripping into the grass. He was shaking, but the gun remained steady enough. There were still more of them to deal with. York didn’t wait for them to come to him, he walked down the hill, trying to bring the things into range so he could kill them as quickly as possible.

Eventually, there was just one figment left. It stood on twitching legs in front of a fence at the end of the pathway. It looked like a man to York. It had a stained, ragged flannel shirt draped around its frame and wide shoulders. It barely moved, raising its arms as if in surrender. It made a quiet murmuring noise and almost seemed not to be hostile. York hesitated. He did not lower his gun, but he waited. He was curious. The figure cracked its neck back and forth, looking around. It looked like a bird, maybe. Some simple animal just surveying the woods. Not really human, but not as awful as the others had been. York heard a whining in his head, the sure sound of something not sitting right, a low, irritating noise without end. The figment still did not move. It made him uncomfortable how it stood there, helplessly against the fence, like a suspect who was tired of running. But that was not the sort of person York tended to deal with. He wasn’t a beat cop, and the sort of people he hunted down knew that it was over as soon as they saw him. If they were capable of registering that kind of news at all. He felt as if the figment was mocking him. And yet, he was still intrigued.

“I always wonder where they come from, Zach,” he muttered. “Does someone send them after me? Or is it really just… a figment of my imagination?” He raised the gun as if to shoot, but the thing in front of him made no attempt to avoid it. It glanced from side to side, its arms still raised, but nothing else. It would be easy to kill, even easier than the others.

“It almost feels wrong to shoot it now, Zach,” York said. “Like shooting someone’s pet.” He was still tempted to find out more about the shadow, and he’d never had a better opportunity than this. And then, before he knew it, it was touching him, its hands scratching and clinging at his clothes. He tried to shout and a second later, he felt its hand in his mouth. There was a stinging taste of ash, as if he’d swallowed a cigarette. The fingers probed the backs of his gums and then lurched down his throat. And then another second later, the hallucination was over. York stumbled backwards, coughing and spitting as if it had actually happened. He could almost feel fingers in his mouth, in his throat. Almost taste the dirty, bitter fingerprints it had left on his tongue. The figment was still there, ahead of him. He could tell that it had been a vision. It hadn’t happened.

“Are you trying to warn me not to let my guard down, Zach?” York asked. He was a little too uncomfortable to find it amusing. “Make sure next time you don’t go all the way to an Evil Dead impression with it, all right?” The shadow reacted to the sound of his voice at last, moaning hoarsely and taking a step towards him. He shot it at once. He was tired of patience. The creature drained away into the grass and it was over. York stood still for a moment and listened, but there were no other sounds. The rain had stopped some time ago. They were gone. For now.

Now that the immediate threat was gone, York actually noticed what was on the other side of the fence he’d found his way to. There were trees on the other side, all of them with unseasonable red leaves. And on the ground were seeds. Red seeds.

“Zach!” York gasped. “This is what we were looking for. This is where they come from!” Although there was no gate on this side of the fence, there was a gap that made way for an old stone statue. It looked like the sort of gargoyle you might see sticking out of a church roof. Or, more accurately, a cheap recreation of one. York managed to squeeze past it and get through. He dropped to the ground and scooped up the seeds in his hands. He watched them spill from his palms. There were so many. He looked above at the canopy of trees. It was obvious that this is where they were falling from, whether the seeds came from the trees themselves or something growing on the branches. After so many murders, so many instances of discovering the rotten things in victim’s mouths and killer’s pockets, he had finally come to the root of the problem.

“Zach,” York said. “They do come from Greenvale. These trees, this is where they grow. I’ve never seen so many at once. But why?”

“You… found them.” York leapt up and spun around. Brian was there, standing on the other side of the fence with his fingers wound into the chain-link. He must have followed him. The fence indicated the edge of the graveyard, York realised.

“Why don’t you come over here and we’ll talk, Brian?” York suggested, trying to keep his voice steady. Brian stared unblinkingly back at him, his skin hued with yellow in the darkness.

“Can’t… go there,” he said, his voice as scratchy and upsetting as ever. “T-too far. N-not good.”

“You can’t leave the graveyard, can you?” York asked. He walked closer to Brian, but made sure to stay out of arm’s length. “You’re trapped here.”

“Not… t-trapped,” Brian insisted.

“Fettered, then,” York said. He felt calmer this time, knowing that Brian couldn’t reach him. “Is your body buried here somewhere? I mean, your human body.” Brian looked back at him with a coldness that actually passed for emotion. Despite himself, York appreciated it. It was a human reaction. It was something a person should do, and he was eager for Brian to act like a real person, instead of an unknowable cross between a figment and a ghost.

“I am… here,” Brian said finally. “This is me.”

“You, yes,” York agreed. “Part of you.” He decided to change tack. “I spoke to Keith Ingram about you, Brian. Do you know him?”

“I don’t kn-know anyone,” Brian said. “I kn-know you… and… Zach.” Although York shuddered at the sound of Zach’s name in Brian’s mouth, as before, he pushed on as if it hadn’t bothered him.

“Keith runs the local grocery store,” York explained, as if he was talking to a passing tourist. “He knows a lot about local myths and legends. He told me that you’re a ghost. And you are a ghost, aren’t you, Brian? Tell me the truth.”

“Wh-what do you want… to know? I know… things. That’s why… you came.” York noticed with a certain satisfaction that Brian was deliberately avoiding his questions. He was starting to feel much happier. Contrary to their previous meetings, Brian actually seemed to be reacting like any normal person might when faced with a difficult topic. Although York did admit that whether or not you were a member of the walking dead was not a common human concern.

“Brian, you know I can’t hurt you, and you don’t exactly seem to be flush with conversation partners,” York said. “So why won’t you talk to me?” Brian did not answer for a moment. His fingers flexed against the metal of the fence and he looked back at York coldly. York hoped he wouldn’t take the chance to disappear again as soon as he blinked.

“Y-you… wanted to find… the seeds. Zach… says so,” Brian said at last. York frowned. It seemed Brian could still find a way to unsettle him, all the same.

“Zach, I know you wouldn’t tell him anything,” he muttered to himself. “Brian,” he said, louder. “How long have you been here? In the graveyard, I mean.”

“I… live here… this is h-home,” Brian answered. “No-one comes… unless, sometimes. When one of them… l-leaves.”

“You mean dies?” York asked. “Yes, I suppose people would come here for funerals. But you don’t speak to them, do you? No-one else can see you. Or, most people can’t.” He paused, taking another step towards Brian, who frowned back at him uncertainly. “I suppose some people might. Keith’s urban legend has to come from someone. After all, I can see you. Who else, Brian? Who else has seen you?” He waited for an answer, knowing it probably wouldn’t come. Brian wasn’t exactly forthcoming, if he even knew the answer.

“The… seeds,” Brian said instead, steering the conversation back to where he had the upper hand. “You found them… the red… the red from your d-dreams.”

“I did,” York said. “Did you want me to find them?”

“You… wanted them,” Brian said. York had to admit that was true. He wondered if Brian had led him down this pathway. That would suggest he had some control over the shadows, and York was not at all convinced that was true. It was more likely that Brian had been waiting for him to discover them on his own, so they could discuss the finding.

“Do you know where they came from?” York asked.

“I know… a lot of th-things,” Brian said, his mouth curling into a grin. York was beginning to understand that Brian only ever wanted to talk about things he knew a lot about. He didn’t like lacking the upper hand at any point. York supposed that if he was an immaterial ghost trapped in a fairly small patch of grass, he might cling to any power he could get as well.

“Then tell me them,” York said plainly. Brian did not react at once. The stiff grin still clung to his face like a rictus parody, but he seemed unsure. As if York was planning on tricking him.

“You still want… the killer,” Brian said. “They use… the s-seeds. The seeds… and the Raincoat Killer… they come f-from the same place.”

“Which place is that?” York asked, feeling his heart jump at the possibility he was about to find some answers.

“The… past,” Brian said. It was better than nothing. York found he was smiling.

“Brian!” he said excitedly. “Where in the past? This is where the legend of the Raincoat Killer comes from, isn’t it? Something happened in the past, something to do with those seeds, and it started a fairy story that people in Greenvale have recited ever since. You know, don’t you? You know how the story started!”

“I know… lots of things,” Brian said again. York was not ready to give up yet. He was close. He could almost taste the truth.

“Brian, I’m sorry if you don’t like being reminded about it, but I know you’re a ghost,” York said. “Were you alive when the real Raincoat Killer, or the first one, was alive? Do you know who it was? What they were?”

“You d-don’t… know,” Brian said. He sounded unhappy, unsettled. “You don’t… understand.”

“Please, Brian, you don’t want any more people to die. You’re good, I know it,” York pleaded. He didn’t know that, naturally, but he was hoping Brian was a good enough person, if that was the right word, to respond. “Who was the Raincoat Killer?”

“Ask… others,” Brian said. “There are people… who kn-know… the truth.”

“Who?” York asked desperately. He was so close.

“The ones… who remember,” Brian said. York was about to push him again, but he darted behind the statue and did not reappear on the other side. York sighed. Brian was gone again. Still, the more he thought about it, the more useful this encounter had been, he realised.

“The ones who remember,” York repeated to himself. “I have a suspicion about who he meant, Zach. This is an old legend, so to find the ones who remember how it started, we’ll have to pay a few senior citizens a visit.” He glanced up at the sky and remembered just how late it was. Not a terrible hour to be outside in the city, but out in the country, with nothing to light the roads but his car’s headlights and the stars, it was not a good time to be out by himself. He needed to get back to the hotel.

“Tomorrow, Zach,” he muttered. “We’ll pay them a visit tomorrow.”


	28. Memories

Chapter Twenty-Eight. [ Memories ]

The next morning, York caught up to Polly in the lobby. She was her usual cheerful self and he hoped she would be as chatty as ever. He also hoped that she would be able to hear all of his questions. He started off with a bit of conversation about the weather and a few compliments on her coffee. She seemed flattered and made sure to ask why he was spending his morning talking with her when there were plenty of women his own age who would appreciate his compliments more. York laughed it off, but inside he was tense. He was running out of time, he knew it. The Raincoat Killer wasn’t done, and he needed a lead. The fact that he was trusting vague, cryptic advice from someone who he still hadn’t made totally certain was real was a sure sign that the investigation was flagging.

“So, Polly,” he began. “This is a strange question, but I need to know if you remember something from a long time ago. A person who called themselves the Raincoat Killer. Specifically, not the fairy story, and not this new criminal we’re dealing with at the moment. Something from before. A long time ago. Do you know anything about that, Polly?”

“The Raincoat Killer?” Polly asked in surprise. This was not the friendly morning small talk she had expected. “Well, I know the story, of course, who doesn’t? And Diane mentioned something about them. I think it was that this terrible monster you’re looking for is, oh what was it, obsessed with them.”

“Diane told you that?” York asked. “I didn’t know you were friends.”

“Oh, yes!” Polly said happily, as if they hadn’t been discussing a murderer seconds ago. “Diane is a lovely woman. We have lunch together sometimes, and she always asks how I am. I’m sure she just likes to keep me company. Her grandmother was my best friend, you know. When we were younger. Of course, she’s gone now, but I am so thankful for Diane. Such a shame what happened to that family…” Polly sighed and shook her head, which only seemed to bow her back further.

“You mean the car accident that killed Diane’s parents?” York asked.

“Yes, that,” Polly agreed. “And before. But it’s not polite to talk about that.” York wondered just how many people in town were aware that Diane’s father had been, how had Emily put it when she told him? ‘Not the kindest man to his wife’. Combined with the horror stories George had told him about his mother, York was beginning to think that, despite appearances, Greenvale was not one of those pleasant little American towns you saw in the old black and white TV shows. Even before the murders. There really were no nice little towns left in America, he thought. Probably not anywhere.

“Well, Diane was correct,” York said, speaking loudly. “I have reason to believe the murderer is drawing inspiration from an old story, and I have reason to believe there is a degree of truth to the story. So Polly, please, if you remember anything, can you tell me?”

“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person, Mr. Morgan!” Polly laughed. “Why, my memory really isn’t what it once was. I can barely remember things I once held dear, let alone a story I _might_ have heard many years ago! No, there are lots of bells that just don’t ring anymore… I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s fine, I understand,” York said. He hadn’t expected much from Polly. She didn’t seem like the type to be hiding a dark truth like this away in her heart. She seemed far too talkative to keep any secrets. If Polly knew who the originator of the Raincoat Killer story had been, he was sure everyone else in Greenvale would too. “Well, Polly, I’m heading out now. I have more people to talk to.”

“Make sure not to ruin your shoes!” Polly said and gave him a small wave before walking away. York wondered what she had heard him say this time. He didn’t have time to worry about it. There were other people he could ask about this, and he didn’t want to waste a second.

♦ ♦ ♦

York pulled up outside the junkyard and took a look. There were husks of cars piled high and he marvelled that the whole place hadn’t been dragged away as a safety hazard. As he walked into the lot, he saw the general sitting in a deck chair drinking from a can. That seemed to be his usual position. When he got close, Lysander glanced over and shouted at him.

“Ha! You better not be here for your car!” the old man cried out in amusement. “That’s not fixed yet. You mustn’t rush these things, private!” York expected he could return in two years and be told the same thing.

“Actually, I came to ask you a few questions,” York said. This only seemed to amuse the general further, as he laughed loudly, shaking his head and banging his fist down on the arm of the chair.

“You’re here to accuse me of that girl’s murder, are you, son?” Lysander asked. “You know, I was in the military. I have seen a human being die. And I still wouldn’t want to see what that girl looked like after you dredged her out of the river. At least if what they’re saying around town is true.”

“Actually, it was the lake,” York corrected. “But I understand, and no, I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I just have some questions –”

“Ah, where’s your backbone!” Lysander laughed. “Go ahead, accuse me of the murder! I don’t have an alibi, I was sleeping here by myself, in the office. You think an old man like me isn’t capable of that kind of thing?”

“I think you’re trying to find distraction in the wrong place,” York said, frowning. He was annoyed that this was a thing of fun to the general. A woman was dead, after all. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have the time to waste. I’ll be blunt with you. I want to ask you about the Raincoat Killer.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one who knows about that, private?” Lysander grunted. “That is what they’re calling the bastard hunting down kids, right?”

“That’s not who I mean,” York said. “I want to know about the origin of a local legend by the same name. You’ve heard the fairy tale, surely? I want to know who inspired it.”

“Course I’ve heard the story!” Lysander snarled. “This is my hometown! Everyone and their mothers knows that story around here. If a story is what you’re going to call it.” York felt he might be getting somewhere. Albeit slowly.

“Yes?” he asked. “So, it’s not just a story?”

“Of course not!” Lysander snapped. “Show some respect!” York raised his hands apologetically.

“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he assured. “I just want to know the truth.”

“The truth, eh?” Lysander grunted. “There’s a lot of truths in this world, son, and most of us don’t want to hear any of them. Sometimes dredging up the past isn’t worth what comes up with it.” He shook his head and took another sip from the can in his hand, but York would not be dissuaded.

“General,” York said firmly, “What do you know about the original Raincoat Killer?”

“Just that there was a big mess back then,” Lysander answered, distractedly. “Oh, it was real all right. Course, I wasn’t here when it happened. I was seventeen and already out of here. I had big dreams to chase back then, like all stupid kids. The war took care of that, and when it was over, I came back here. It’s the only place you can go after something like that. You got to go back to your hometown. Don’t you think, private?” Before York could answer, he cracked into another round of laughter. “There were plenty of stories by the time I got back! I’ll tell you that for free. Plenty of missing faces, as well. Sure, some of them were gone off to war, never came back, but there were others, I’m sure of it. I’ll tell you what, though. There was one person who was still around when I came back, and they shook me right down to my core…”

“Yes? Who?” York asked excitedly. He might finally have a lead on the original Raincoat Killer. If they weren’t dead, he might even be able to interview them.

“Sigourney!” Lysander laughed loudly. “Now there was a woman who’d make your knees shake! She knew what a woman was supposed to do, I’ll tell you that, private! A real gem. Greenvale’s never grown better, no, it has not.”

“Right,” York said, feeling slightly queasy at the implication. It was not the information he was after. Maybe Lysander was right about dredging up the past. This was something he could certainly do without knowing.

“That all you need then, private?” Lysander laughed. He must have known he was taking York on a wild goose chase from the beginning. York guessed he did not find his amusement as easily these days as he’d like. If he lived in Greenvale, he knew he’d make sure to avoid the general and his games whenever possible.

“Yes, thank you,” York said. Lysander had probably given him all he could. If he had left Greenvale before the soon to be legendary events had taken place, there wasn’t much more he could say about it. It did help narrow down the timeline a little. York supposed he was probably looking for something that had happened in the fifties or sixties. He left the junkyard to the sound of more chuckling and made his way back to the car. His next stop was going to be further afield.

♦ ♦ ♦

After having to stop once and ask for directions, York found himself in a small parking lot in the middle of the otherwise pristine woods. Opposite him was a log cabin in which, he had been assured, Jim Green lived. He walked over and knocked on the door, taking time to appreciate the gentle sound of water moving nearby.

“Sounds like a good place to relax, doesn’t it, Zach?” he muttered, smirking. “If only we had the time.” A moment later, Jim came to the door. He gave York a once over and moved for him to come inside without a word. “Thank you, Jim,” York said. He found a seat and sat himself down, admiring the fish mounted on the wall. Presumably there were good fishing spots in the area.

“How can I help you today?” Jim asked. He had a stern tone and York knew his presence wasn’t appreciated. He didn’t see the Ingram twins around, but he knew that if they were nearby, Jim would not want him to talk with them at all. Thankfully, he shouldn’t need to. He didn’t want to cause any unnecessary stress.

“I came to ask you a question,” York said. “It’s about something that happened a long time ago. Maybe forty or fifty years ago, I’m not sure. It’s about the inspiration for the local fairy story. The one about the Raincoat Killer.” Jim frowned.

“Now why are you asking me about that?” he asked.

“Well, considering when it happened, I’m trying to find anyone who may have been alive to see it,” York explained. Jim almost smiled.

“I see. So I’m on your list because I’m old. Well, there’s no hiding that, I suppose.” He sat down in an armchair opposite York. “I didn’t hear that story when I was a child. I think it came later, as you say. I don’t remember seeing any kind of ‘real’ Raincoat Killer, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

“Anything would be useful,” York sighed. Someone had to know something. He was starting to run out of old people.

“All right,” Jim said. He leant back and rubbed his chin with his knuckles in thought. “I don’t know much… There was never a ‘Raincoat Killer’ in the news, you understand, not that I remember. We’ve never had anything like this happen here before. None of your serial killers.”

“They aren’t my serial killers, I just catch them,” York said dryly.

“Your city makes them,” Jim said crossly. “But that’s not the point. That doesn’t happen in Greenvale, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“You make it sound like no-one here ever dies,” York said smiling.

“Oh, sure people die,” Jim said. “People get old, people get sick, there are accidents. And yes, over the years there’s been a murder or two, but nothing big. Nothing flashy. Nothing like what the FBI considers worth their notice.” It was almost as if Jim didn’t think highly of the FBI, York thought to himself, trying not to laugh. He couldn’t help but think the man’s position was naïve, even if it was charmingly pure-hearted.

“So, nothing at all?” York asked.

“Well, now. Actually, now that you mention it…” Jim began, struggling with a memory he hadn’t drawn out for a long time. York waited, metaphorically on the edge of his seat. Literally, he thought the couch was more comfortable than what he’d expect to find in a log cabin, and was leaning back into the cushions happily. But he was leaning forward with anticipation in spirit. “I don’t know if this is a real memory, it was a very long time ago, but there was something all right, back when I was a teenager. It’s probably not what you need at all.”

“Please, Jim,” York said. “Just tell me anything you remember.”

“One night, I remember my parents telling me to stay in the house,” Jim said. “I asked why of course. I wasn’t a child. They told me something strange was going on outside. That I should go to bed early, or stay up in my room. I was a respectful boy, so I did it. I only remember it because the next day, one of my friends had left town suddenly. I never saw him again. I suppose a part of me always wondered if it was connected somehow. Not that my parents ever talked about what had happened again, so I expect I was making something out of nothing. Greenvale was fuller then. There were more people, not like now, where there’s maybe six or seven hundred living here. It wasn’t unusual for someone to head off in search of work, especially when the railways were all functioning. It just seemed strange. He never wrote, not once. Strange.” Jim paused, realising he had gotten engrossed. “Ah, that’s nothing I’m sure,” he said quickly. “I really do expect he just got busy with life, as we all do.”

“That does seem unusual,” York said slowly, taking in everything Jim had told him. “Your parents didn’t tell you any more than that ‘something strange’ was happening?”

“Listen, York is it?” Jim said firmly. “You’ve come and stirred up old memories, that’s all. You’re planting ideas in my head like little seeds, and they’re sprouting nonsense. Nothing odd happened back then. I assume a tired parent made up your Raincoat Killer story some time when I was already grown and it caught on, as these things do. All I know is that I didn’t hear it when I was a child myself. I think my late wife told Lilly something like it when she was young. Probably to get that girl inside at a sensible hour, if I remember how she used to be. Not that things are much better now, but that is none of my business, not really.”

“Ah, I take it you don’t care too much for Keith?” York suggested. Jim frowned at him, but he did not answer right away. Long enough for the implication to be clear.

“Of course not. He’s my son-in-law. I respect my daughter’s right to choose how to live her own life,” Jim said tactfully. “After all, they’ve given me two beautiful grandsons.”

“Where are Isaach and Isaiah today?” York asked. Jim sighed.

“Oh, with that man. Kaysen,” he explained. “I don’t know why Lilly and Keith hand them over to him so often, we barely know the man. I don’t know a single thing about his life, apart from what happens when he visits this town. It just makes me uneasy. I would always be happy to watch the boys.”

“I’m sure they just don’t want to burden you,” York reasoned, but Jim let out another sigh.

“But they’ll burden him, a stranger,” he said. York couldn’t argue. He had felt uneasy around Kaysen himself, and he didn’t know why. There was no reason for it. Still, he understood Jim’s reluctance. He seemed to be very protective of his grandchildren.

“Well, thank you for your time, Jim,” York said, getting to his feet. “You’ve been helpful.”

“Don’t be offended by this, but I hope you solve this case as soon as possible and leave town,” Jim said, getting up to walk him out. “It’s no good, having this in the air. I don’t want the boys to know.”

“I’ll try to make sure they don’t find out,” York said. As they reached the door, Jim gave him a final stern look.

“Now, that’s not a promise that’s yours to make,” he said. He nodded a quick dismissal and shut the door. York shrugged to himself and went back towards the car. Jim was right, he supposed. As long as the case remained unsolved, the chances of the two children finding out what was really happening increased every day. He could understand the concern.

“Still, Zach,” York muttered. “Won’t it be worse if they end up asking why one of their neighbours has gone to prison?”

♦ ♦ ♦

It had been a long, roundabout drive, but York now stood outside of the Stewart mansion once more. He was planning on getting more out of this visit than the last one. Emily wasn’t with him this time, and although he appreciated her help, York felt he might have a better chance of applying pressure on his own. That, and there was a chance Harry would be more interested in talking to an out-of-towner than he was to the local police. York knocked loudly on the door and waited.

Eventually, the door opened a crack, and York saw Michael’s face framed in the space between the doors. When he saw who it was, he narrowed his eyes at York.

“Yes…?” he asked.

“Hello, Michael,” York said chipperly. “Isn’t it a nice day? The weather’s much nicer than last night, don’t you think? Tell me, do you like sunshine? You don’t seem to get out much.” Michael did not answer. “What’s the matter, Michael?” York asked, continuing his charade of friendliness. “Can’t think of a rhyme for ‘rain’? It’s easy. How about ‘you’re being a pain’?”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan,” Michael said sharply. “If you are done with this childish taunting, perhaps you can tell me what you’re wanting?”

“I just came to say hi to your boss,” York said, stepping forward and pressing on the door. Michael acquiesced and stepped out of the way, letting him come in. He silently led York through to the same dining hall as before, where Harry Stewart sat facing the window. Michael went to his side and turned his chair so that he could see York.

“Mr. Stewart was not expecting a guest, you are interrupting his rest,” Michael said. York doubted that. He was sure Harry just didn’t like the idea of having anything unexpected happen. He seemed like a man who liked to be in control at all times.

“Hello, Harry,” York said. “I’m here for a simple reason. I won’t waste your time. Something happened in Greenvale in the fifties or sixties, something that inspired the legend of the Raincoat Killer. You know what happened, you’ve told me as much. I need to know what it was.” He waited while Michael listened to Harry talk.

“Your timeframe is far too wide, and I cannot satisfy your pride. So says Mr. Stewart,” Michael recited. York frowned. This was ridiculous. Harry had made it clear at the town meeting that he remembered something about the legend, something from when he was younger. Why he wouldn’t share it, York didn’t know. People were dying. Was it really worth playing this game?

“I see,” he said coldly. “That’s funny, because you’ve already told me not to ignore the truth of what happened in the past, which means you know what I’m talking about.” He stopped for a moment to take out a cigarette, ignoring the usual social rules about smoking in someone else’s house. Neither Michael nor Harry tried to stop him as he lit it. They both remained still and silent, watching him like living statues. “Do you know who the original Raincoat Killer was, Harry?” York asked.

“Mr. Stewart is not aware of their identity, if they are anything more than a fictional entity,” Michael answered. “I, that is he, would suggest you stop chasing a fairy tale, or you are setting yourself up to fail.” York was not deterred.

“Did you know them?” he asked firmly. “I know there was someone. I know something happened. Did you know who it was? I heard someone disappeared. Probably multiple people. Did you know any of them, Harry?”

“I think it is time for you to go, there is nothing here you want to know,” Michael said, stepping forward, ready to usher him out. York ignored him and walked in close to Harry. He knelt down before the man, staring angrily into his blank, covered eye sockets.

“Do you know who the new one is?” he whispered sharply. “Do you know who the Raincoat Killer is, Harry? Why won’t you tell me anything?”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan!” Michael snapped. “You will have to leave Mr. Stewart alone! I am sorry we cannot explain the unknown.”

“Just let him answer me himself, Michael,” York asked. “Harry, don’t you want these deaths to end? Don’t you want the killer to face justice?”

At that moment, Harry Stewart’s shoulder’s convulsed and twitched. He wheezed behind the gasmask. It took York several seconds to realise that he was laughing. Harry rocked with laughter in his chair, the sound of it muffled and eerie, more like the creaking of a machine than human laughter. York was frozen. All his bravado had melted away. Harry continued for several moments before stopping suddenly. He leant forward, fingers twisting tightly around the arms of his wheelchair to steady himself. Then, in a rotten whisper, so muted York wasn’t sure it was real, he spoke.

“There is no justice.”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan, it is past time for you to say farewell. Mr. Stewart has nothing else to tell.” York got up and followed Michael’s lead. He had had enough for one day. The memory of hearing Harry speak already felt fake, and he felt himself immediately doubting that it had actually happened. He was sure that by tomorrow it would feel like a dream. Maybe that was just as well. When they got to the front doors, York reached for the handle to let himself out, but in a flash, Michael grabbed hold of his arm and stopped him.

“What are you doing?” York asked. Michael put a finger to his lips to indicate the need for quiet, turning his head back towards the way they’d come. York felt that they were far enough away from the dining hall that Harry wouldn’t be able to hear them, but he was more surprised by the fact that he wasn’t supposed to.

“While we’re alone, I have something to say. I don’t think it can wait for another day,” Michael whispered. “I… no, I’ll be brief. Do not trust Mr. Stewart. Do not play along with him.”

“Michael, what’s this?” York whispered, shocked. “I thought that the two of you were inseparable!” Michael shook his head frantically. York could see in the way his eyes darted about that he was more than just nervous. He was frightened.

“I never know what’s going through his head,” Michael whispered. “I just do what I’m asked. I never ask questions. Since these murders started, he’s been… unusual. I think something’s wrong.”

“You think he’s involved?” York asked. Michael glared at him and York realised he’d spoken above a whisper in his shock.

“I didn’t say that!” Michael hissed. “I’m just concerned. He does know a truth about the story, and I don’t know why he won’t tell you what happened in the past. If I knew, I would tell you myself. Sometimes, it’s like this. There are… games.”

“Games?” York whispered. “Mind games, you mean?” Michael nodded. “But Michael, if he’s involved in the murders, wouldn’t you know about it? Surely he can’t have hurt anyone on his own.”

“I agree,” Michael whispered back. “He never leaves the house without me at his side, so I’m certain he hasn’t hurt anyone. Otherwise I would have gone to the police. No, that is not a possibility.”

“Then what are you trying to tell me?” York muttered. Michael hesitated, he pushed a hand through his bangs nervously and when he looked back at York, his hands were shaking.

“I believe…” he began, “that Mr. Stewart has been making odd telephone calls. Late at night. I’m unable to say more than that.”

“Who has he been talking to?” York asked, trying to keep his voice low and struggling against his burning curiosity. “You think this is about the murders?”

“I told you I can’t say more!” Michael hissed. “I just don’t have any more answers! It’s been weighing on me. Just the possibility… but I am sure Mr. Stewart is a good man, I… needed to tell someone. You’ll take it into consideration?”

“Of course, Michael, but you need to tell me what you suspect is happening. Who he might be talking to. Can you do that?” York felt it was unlikely, looking at the state of him. It made him uneasy watching Michael, who had always been composed to the point of seeming robotic, unravelling in front of him like a ball of yarn. Michael kept glancing back at the hallway as if Harry was going to appear at any moment.

“I have no idea!” Michael hissed. “I wish I knew. I wish I could put my doubts to rest, but I cannot! I’m stuck… but you’ll find out the truth. If you find out about the origin of that legend, then surely everything else will fall into place! Please, there must be a record somewhere. You can do that, can’t you?” Michael’s eyes were wide and pleading. York felt sorry for him. He had misread him before. It seemed Harry had a strong hold over his assistant. He hated to admit it, but George had probably been right about him. York should never have let himself be baited into Harry’s games.

“Michael, if you’re unhappy, you should leave,” York said quietly, trying to sound sympathetic. Michael shook his head, brushing off the suggestion completely.

“I can’t do that,” he insisted.

“Why?” York asked. “If it’s about money, I’m sure there’s something else you can do. After all, it’s just a job. And Harry’s just your boss.”

“No, he isn’t!” Michael hissed. He reached past York and opened the door. “I’m afraid you really will need to leave now. Please, bear in mind what I told you.” York stared at him for a moment, but Michael looked down at the floor. York thought that he was shaking slightly. Although the last thing he wanted to do was leave the conversation in the middle, he suspected this was all he was going to get. He walked out of the door, and as soon as he was outside, Michael shut it behind him. York shook his head.

“What do you make of that then, Zach?” he muttered, making his way back to the car. He couldn’t help but glance up at the imposing wall of the mansion, looking for security cameras. Harry seemed like the type to spy on his guests. When he was inside the car, and away from the many potential eyes of Harry Stewart, he felt safer.

“I thought Michael was just a prop,” York said to himself. “But he’s not as wooden as he seems. Did you hear, Zach? He even stopped rhyming when he was talking to us. So, it seems there really isn’t a single person in Greenvale who thinks Harry is trustworthy. Not even his faithful assistant. Speaking of which, Zach, what did he mean at the end there? Harry isn’t just his boss? I wonder what kind of hold he has on him. It must be something impressive to make Michael that anxious.” York shook his head, thinking the whole thing over. “How old do you think Michael is, Zach? Twenty-five? Twenty? I can’t imagine someone of that age has done much in their life that someone can blackmail them with. But then, Harry Stewart is not a normal man. It’s possible he has a whole different set of tricks up his sleeve. Something we can’t even imagine yet.”

York stared out of the car at the mansion. He hadn’t really noticed before, but all the curtains in all the windows were drawn. Probably the only exposed window in the whole house was the one that overlooked the waterfall, where Harry seemed to sit all day.

“It’s as impenetrable as its owner, Zach,” York muttered. “How fitting.” He shook his head, taking the time to stop and smoke a cigarette before finally starting the car and driving away.


	29. York’s Third Dream

Chapter Twenty-Nine. [ York’s Third Dream ]

I am standing in the red room, seeds surrounding my ankles, tucking themselves into the bottom of my trousers. Ahead of me, there are two chairs. I recognise the young twins sitting in them as Isaach and Isaiah, although their skin has the same quality as steel wool. It moves like a canvas of insects across their bones.

“Why are they here, Zach?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, ask them,” he replies.

I take a step towards the twins, and they lean into each other, shaking with giggles. It’s as if the two sweet boys that exist in reality have been turned inside out and regurgitated by the other world.

“Many have to do questions are giving, you?” one of them laughs.

“Questions too many is. Make for think should, you told often,” the other agrees. I think they’re saying something about me asking questions around town. I feel as if I’m being made fun of.

“Do you not want me to ask questions?” I ask them. I suppose if they don’t, that might give the wrong impression. They laugh again, their skin coruscating like a honeycomb swarmed with silver bees.

“Questions not do, not make problem. Too many take answers wrong option,” one of them tells me. His hands cover his mouth as he laughs, and thanks to the intangible nature of his face, it looks as if he’s eating his own fingers. Like a childhood nail-biting habit, out of control.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I walk towards them and feel the seeds parting like the red sea, waves of them breaking against my legs and the legs of their chairs.

“Listen! Listen! Listen!” the two twins shriek with laughter. “You, always listen!” I make another move towards them and they disappear with a final amused wail into nothingness. The chairs are empty. I turn around and around, but I’m alone.

“Zach, what are they talking about?” I ask. The seeds at my feet seem to have risen, they’re halfway to my knees. I kick at them, but more swell up, like from an undersea current.

“York, just calm down,” Zach says. “You can’t let it upset you. You have to relax.”

“I can’t calm down, Zach, not when the killer is still out there…” I sigh. I notice that there are seeds on my jacket, and I stop to brush them off, sending them falling down to the already heaving piles that have buried my feet.

“If you don’t calm down, it’ll go wrong,” Zach says sternly. That’s easy for him to say.

“I need to find the Raincoat Killer!” I shout. There are more seeds on my jacket, on my hands, clinging like burrs. I brush them off and they topple down. It almost makes it seem like I am the tree, shedding my own seeds onto the forest carpet.

“Find for me!” I spin around. The voice came from behind me and I wince when I see whose it was.

Standing there, hands raised and fingers twisted, a red dress that seeps into the floor of seeds like a river. It’s Carol. Her face is torn to pieces, but I recognise her all the same. I recognise the angry wail of her voice.

“Find for me, them, bring hurt to them!” she shrieks. She shudders and her hair flicks forward over her face. It’s soaking wet. As it drips down, it looks almost like tears falling from her shattered eyes. But the water is red. No, a moment later I realise the truth. It’s not even water.

It’s red seeds.

This is the source of the multitude of seeds swimming around my feet. They are dripping from Carol’s sodden face and pooling in huge piles on the ground. In fact, they are forming a lake. The seeds are already up to my waist, I realise. Pretty soon I’m going to drown.

“Carol, who did it?!” I shout. “Who hurt you? You have to tell me, so I can find them!”

“You failed! You meant are to stop this! Stop this!” she screams. Her hands go to her face and she tosses her hair back, the fingers reaching and the nails tearing.

“Carol, stop!” I cry out. I try to walk towards her, but the seeds are too thick. It’s like trying to swim through syrup.

“Stop this!” she shrieks again. Her fingers work over her face, finding the wounds and ripping them open. She tears at her skin with ferocity, and the same carelessness of ripping off a bandage. Every time she pulls away a strip of skin, she tosses it into the sea of seeds surrounding us and another burst of seeds squirts from the place where her face used to be. I feel as if I’m watching her murder happen, and I’m still useless to prevent it.

Carol finishes ripping the flesh from her face, completing her murder of herself. There is no skull underneath, just a blank, round shape like a mannequin’s head. The body quivers and shudders for a moment, then bursts. For a split second, Carol’s outline is still visible. She has been replaced by the seeds that apparently filled her, and they tumble down into the lake that is swallowing me up.

“Zach, I need to get out of here, help me!” I shout. The seeds are at my neck now, and they are moving, rocking like actual waves. I can no longer see the chairs where the Ingram twins were sitting, or anything else. There are no walls, no doors, just seeds, seeds, seeds in every direction.

“York, don’t let them overwhelm you!” I hear Zach call out, but even he is starting to sound far away. I try and move, swim, but it’s like struggling against quicksand. Every movement pulls me further underneath the surface.

It doesn’t feel wet, because this is a lake without water. Instead, it feels as if I have dipped my hand, or rather, my entire body, into a pile of crisp leaves on an autumn afternoon. I feel the small, sharp shapes brushing across me. There is no crushing pressure. If I slip under the surface of seeds, I won’t be squashed by the many tons that surely exist by now. I will simply drown.

I wonder if this is what it was like for Quint and Carol, when they swallowed the seeds. Did they know they were drowning, too?

“Just relax!” Zach calls out to me. I try and turn my head, but as I do, I lose the battle against the current.

My head is enveloped by the waves of seeds and, instead of feeling a pressure in my lungs as I hold my breath, as I expected, I feel myself falling. I am falling and falling. There are no seeds, nothing against my skin. I’m just falling, falling, through nothing.

Suddenly, it stops.

I’m awake.


	30. Going Home

Chapter Thirty. [ Going Home ]

The dream was still bothering York through breakfast and during his drive over to the sheriff’s department. It only melted out of mind when he saw Emily’s car in the parking lot. He smiled to himself as he got out of the cruiser.

“I hope she enjoyed her day off, Zach,” York muttered. “I don’t know that I did.”

Inside the building, York was surprised to see George. The sheriff was almost out of sight, standing just into the hallway, but his large silhouette and cowboy hat made it obvious who he was. York was about to say hello, when he realised he was talking to someone. Instead, he stopped to listen.

“I don’t know what you expect from me,” George grunted. There was a sharp sigh from ahead of him.

“Do something about it,” the other voice said. It took York a moment to recognise it. The angry tone was not much like her usual dreamy, detached quality. It was Diane. His interest was piqued. “You’re the sheriff! Unless that FBI Agent has taken that from you as well.”

“Watch your mouth!” George snapped back, tensing.

“All I want is to be able to live my life without constantly worrying that someone is watching me,” Diane hissed. York was impressed. It seemed that when she was actually frustrated, she was just like everybody else. He had wondered if she was as untouchable as she seemed, but apparently there was a person underneath all along.

“Then why don’t you do something?” George snorted, seemingly amused. “It’s not my job to fix this shit. There’s no crime been done.”

“I thought, considering our friendship, you might want to get that toad off my back,” Diane hissed. Another interesting titbit, York thought. He noticed how Diane said ‘friendship’, and he doubted she was referring to George coming over to eat popcorn and watch movies together.

“Yeah, yeah, well I’ll see,” George said. “If it crosses my path, I’ll look into it.”

“Finally!” Diane sighed. “I just don’t want to be followed any more. It’s so… restrictive.”

“Sure,” George sneered. “It’s really impacted on your lifestyle, Diane.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Diane snarled. The sound of her heels clicking was immediately followed by her appearing around the corner and stopping dead when she saw that York had been listening in.

“Hello, Diane,” York said politely. She glared at him, clearly boiling under the surface.

“Agent,” she said coolly. She turned her chin up and strode past him, brushing him out of the way to get to the door, and leaving with the sound of it slamming behind her. George was staring angrily at York now, and York suspected he would not hide his feelings as well as his friend.

“What the hell are you playing at?” George growled. “Were you listening to that? I was talking privately to a concerned citizen about a personal problem. You don’t get to listen in on private conversations, Agent Morgan!”

“I’m sorry, George,” York said. “I was only here for a moment. I didn’t realise the corridor was under a confidentiality clause.” He smiled. George did not reciprocate.

“Do what you want, you will anyway,” George grunted. He stormed off in the direction of his office, and York let him go. He was only interested in seeing Emily, anyway. He had no idea what George was doing at work. Though, he supposed, there were surely plenty of petty crimes that someone needed to deal with. Including, it seemed, Diane’s stalker. If that was what it seemed. It was easy to forget that life kept moving while he was dealing with the murder case. If someone in Greenvale broke a window, someone needed to be here to handle it.

York found Emily in the conference room. She was drinking some of her terrible coffee, and when she saw him she got up, smiling. He smiled back. Hopefully he was about to hear some good news.

“York!” Emily said happily. “Thomas called. He’s getting out of the hospital today. I promised to drive over there soon and pick him up, is that all right?”

“Yes, Emily, of course, we’ll go together,” York said. He was glad to hear it. If Thomas was leaving the hospital, then hopefully he was beginning to deal with his grief. As he thought it, the memory of Carol tearing at her face from his dream returned, and he coughed to cover up his reaction. The whole vision made him itch.

“So, did you turn up any leads yesterday?” Emily asked. “Do you want some coffee before we head out? There’s still some in the kitchen.”

“No, that’s all right,” York said quickly. It was never a good day when he had to turn down coffee, but he had already had some at the hotel, and didn’t want the ‘thrilling’ taste of Emily’s to wash away the vague memory of Polly’s wonderful coffee that remained on his tongue. “And yes, I suppose I did. Although I’m not too sure about what I learned.”

“Why?” Emily asked, as they walked out together. “Do you have a lead on the killer?”

“No more than ever,” York admitted. “I asked around town about our killer’s hero. It seems the original Raincoat Killer existed sometime in the fifties or sixties. No-one knows much about them, although there’s a chance they were involved in at least one disappearance. Whether they were an actual murderer, or just a children’s playground story gone wrong, remains to be seen.”

“All right,” Emily said, slightly disappointed. It bothered York that he couldn’t bring her any more useful news. Although, there was one last thing.

“And…” he began slowly. “Michael Tillotson told me something.”

“What?” Emily asked in shock. “Really? He spoke to you?!”

“He did,” York said. “As I was leaving their house. Harry was as helpful as ever, but at the door, Michael stopped me. He seemed frightened. He told me that Harry makes strange phone calls late at night, although he didn’t know much more than that. It was… out of character.”

“Harry is… what?” Emily was stunned. “And _he_ told you this? Michael?”

“Yes, Emily, that’s all correct,” York agreed. They had reached his car. He unlocked it and got inside while Emily let the news sink in.

“Who do you think he’s calling?” she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat. York shrugged. He had asked himself the same thing, and was still short of an answer. He tapped idly on the knot of his tie as he thought it over again.

“According to both you and George, he doesn’t have any friends, any family, or any connections in Greenvale at all. I suppose he could be calling someone outside of town, but I doubt it.” York was actually certain that that wasn’t the case. It never was. “No, I have a feeling this is all connected.”

“I’m sure it is too,” Emily agreed. She shook her head in disbelief. “Wow. You actually got Michael to talk to you. Now that’s impressive.”

“Maybe,” York said. “But until I know more about what he meant, it’s useless.” He started up the engine. “Anyway. For now, let’s just go and pick up our friend, Thomas. I’m sure he’s dying to get out of that hospital.”

♦ ♦ ♦

As they drove, York considered asking Emily about his idea of watching a few movies together. He had turned the question over in his head, and was hoping that there was no way to misconstrue it. He was just asking her, a friend, to do a simple, friendly activity together. To increase their friendship. It was easy enough, surely. And yet, the question just wouldn’t form.

“York, slow down,” Emily said. “You’re almost going 70.” He realised she was right and slowed the car down. Even on the mostly empty country roads, he didn’t want to take too many risks. After all, he had already wrecked one car during this case.

“Emily,” York said, pressing the words out with effort. She looked over at him benignly. “Do you know if there is anywhere in Greenvale… where you can, uh, rent videos?”

“Not really,” she replied. “You have to buy anything like that. I know, it’s a shame. Why? Is there something you wanted to get?”

“Nothing specific,” York admitted. “I just thought it might be nice to try and relax a little. Watching movies is always my favourite method of relaxing. You like movies as well, don’t you?”

“Yes, York, I do. We covered this,” Emily laughed.

“Then, it might be more efficient if we watched a movie together, don’t you think that makes sense?” York asked, awkwardly. He glanced at Emily to see if she was shocked. She didn’t seem to react much. Hopefully that wasn’t bad, either.

“Sure, if you want to,” she said. “We can watch one this evening after work if you want. I could do with someone to taste test my cooking.” York went cold. There had been a trick after all. On the one hand, Emily’s company. On the other, Emily’s cooking. It was an impossible decision.

“All right, that seems fair,” he said eventually. He knew his stomach would hate him for it later.

“Great!” Emily said, pleased. “I’m glad. I have a new recipe that I think I’ve just started to get right.” York dreaded to think what it might be. However, they were just pulling into the hospital parking lot, so he would have to worry about it later.

As they walked inside, Fiona looked up from her book and waved. York went over to say hello. Emily went ahead to find Thomas.

“Hello, Fiona,” York said. “Studying again?”

“That’s right!” Fiona said cheerfully. “There’s always so much to learn. Every time I get something into my head it’s like, surprise, here’s another thing you didn’t even know existed yet! It’s a lot to take in, but I’m getting there.”

“And with that attitude, I’m sure you’ll make an excellent doctor one day,” York said. “Tell me, has there been any progress with the doctor?”

“Not yet,” Fiona laughed. “But we’ll see. One day!” She smiled and turned her attention back to her book. York made his way in the direction of the ward. When he got there, Thomas already seemed to be ready to go. He was just thanking Emily for her help when York walked in.

“Oh! York!” Thomas said when he saw him. “I didn’t realise you were coming as well.”

“I hope that’s all right, Thomas,” York said apologetically. “I wanted to make sure you were feeling better. It just made sense for me to come along.”

“I-I’m glad you did!” Thomas said shyly. “It means a lot to have people I can count on right now… It won’t be easy…” His eyes fell to the floor as the words faded out. Emily quickly stepped up to change the topic.

“Thomas, how about we take you out for lunch after this? I bet it’ll be nice to eat something other than hospital food, won’t it?” she asked. He nodded. “Great. Let’s go and make sure everything’s sorted out with you leaving.”

“Okay,” Thomas said in a small voice. Emily walked him out of the room, presumably off to the reception desk. York watched them leave. It occurred to him that, with Thomas staying in the hospital and Carol in the morgue, the two siblings had still been living in the same building for the past few days, as they had for years beforehand. This would be the last day they ever did so. He was sure the idea had crossed Thomas’ mind as well, and his extended stay in the hospital had been at least partly influenced by a desire not to leave his sister alone. York shook his head softly.

“Oh, Agent York.” Ushah opened the door, interrupting York’s thought. “I didn’t realise Thomas had already left.” York shrugged it off.

“No, he just did,” he explained. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“Ha, well it’s my job,” Ushah said, with an awkward laugh. “I trust you’ll look out for him now?”

“I will,” York said. The conversation was dark and he wanted it to end. A lunch with Thomas was bound to be full of more than enough bleak moments, he could at least share a brief, light chat with Ushah before it started. He enjoyed the jokes he was able to trade with the doctor. “Say, Ushah,” he said in a lighter tone. “I was talking with Fiona earlier.”

“Oh yeah? What was she saying?” Ushah asked, returning some of York’s smile.

“She was talking about how inspired she feels to study medicine,” York said. He was feeling puckish. There was no reason he couldn’t play matchmaker in his free moment. “You know, she has a certain inspiration in mind when she thinks of becoming a doctor.”

“Is that right?” Ushah said dryly.

“Someone quite close to home,” York said. He could tell from Ushah’s uninterested expression that he was already well aware of who Fiona’s inspiration was. “Fiona is a sweet girl,” he added. “I can tell she goes after what she wants, even if she takes her own pace.”

“Yes… I know,” Ushah sighed. He thumbed the edge of the stethoscope around his neck defensively. “She’s given me a few hints about how she feels. And the nurses aren’t subtle when they gossip, either.”

“Ah,” York laughed. “Then, is there any reason the two of you aren’t already a couple?”

“Well…” Ushah said slowly. He thought for a second before bringing himself to answer. “The truth is… I’ve never had a girlfriend before. I feel kind of uncomfortable about it. So, I haven’t reacted to her hints, and I don’t think I’ll be able to.” He did seem uncomfortable, having broken eye contact and fussily adjusted his glasses. York was surprised. He remembered Fiona mentioning that Ushah had worked in L.A. as something of a success. He was surely well-off, and was certainly handsome. Unless he was working hundred hour weeks, which in Greenvale seemed unlikely, York couldn’t see why he hadn’t managed to date anyone in his time.

“I see,” York said uncertainly. He gave Ushah his best over-the-top grin. “Well, you’ll never find a girlfriend if you’re too afraid to try.”

“No, I expect I won’t,” Ushah agreed, with a small smirk. York said goodbye and headed back to the reception desk, where he found Thomas and Emily ready to leave. The three of them went out to the car, Thomas climbing into the back with his things.

“Are we ready boys and girls?” York asked cheerfully. Thomas made a vague noise of agreement.

“Let’s get going to the diner,” Emily said. “I want to miss the lunch rush.” Then, in a quieter voice to just York. “Thomas could do with the quiet.”

“Let’s go,” York agreed. It was an almost silent drive over to the A&G diner. Thomas said nothing and there were no questions they could safely ask him. The whole point was to take his mind off what had happened, and yet small talk felt callous while he sat there in silence staring down at the car floor. Eventually they arrived at the diner, and he seemed slightly less wilted at the thought of eating something. The three of them walked in and found a booth to sit down in.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Emily asked Thomas with a smile that was trying a little too hard. He shrugged.

“Not really… I didn’t bring any money,” he admitted. York was quick to jump in.

“The FBI is here to take care of you, Thomas,” he said. “Don’t worry about money.”

“Is that all right?” Thomas asked uncertainly. Emily rolled her eyes and grinned.

“Well, if it isn’t, it’s a bit late now. Apparently the FBI have given York the kind of expense account where buying lunch for friends isn’t a concern.”

“Emily, I’m wounded,” York said. “I’m not buying lunch for friends, I’m merely paying for a meal shared among my fellow law enforcers during a case. As long as I don’t stop thinking about finding the Raincoat Killer, the FBI has no reason to be upset with my spending.”

“Yeah, that,” Emily laughed. She looked up from the table, around the diner. “Hmm. That is, if we get served at all. There’s no-one here.” York looked over as well. Emily was half right. He could make out Nick in the kitchen, and there were several people sitting on the other side of the diner, but there was no-one around to take their order.

“Strange…” York muttered. He got up from his seat and went over to the kitchen window. When Nick saw him there he sighed to himself and came over, a weary frown on his face.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked. “You want to eat?”

“Actually, Nick, we all do,” York said, gesturing towards Emily and Thomas. “But it seems you’re understaffed today.”

“Yeah, well, Sallie still won’t let Anna come back to work,” Nick said. “Apparently she’s kept her in the house ever since what happened to Carol MacLaine came out. And I doubt we’ll get anyone in to replace her, so you’ll just have to deal with slow service.” He was about to walk away from the window, but York wasn’t finished.

“I’m aware of that,” he said with a small, fake smile. “I was wondering where Olivia might be.”

“Olivia?” Nick scoffed. “She’s gone home.”

“Is she sick?” York asked, trying to sound sympathetic. It was out of place when compared to the sour expression on Nick’s face.

“Is she, that’s a good question,” Nick muttered. “I don’t know what to tell you, Agent. She isn’t here. She told me she was going home. Something about a fever. Go find her yourself. Maybe she’ll bring you a burger if you can get her out of bed.” With that, he was done, and he left to return to the grill before York could ask him anymore questions.

“We’ll order when you’re ready,” York called out to Nick before returning to the table.

“Is everything all right?” Emily asked when he had sat down.

“Yes, Emily, everything’s fine,” York said. “Olivia seems to be sick, so it may be a while before we can eat, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said. “I hope she’s okay.”

“Yes, I do too,” York said slowly. After a while, Nick did come and get their order. The three of them ate and Emily managed to get Thomas talking a little. His usual shyness was not aided by his misery, but by the end of the meal, he was starting to sound halfway back to normal.

“It is nice to be out of the hospital and back on my feet…” Thomas said with a weak smile.

“I’m sure it is!” Emily agreed. York could tell she was overcompensating, acting far friendlier and more cheerful than was normal, but as long as it was working he didn’t have any criticism.

“Thank you both again,” Thomas said shyly. “For coming to see me and picking me up. It… it means a lot to me, it does.”

“Thomas, we’re your friends, of course we did,” Emily said, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

“Did any of your other friends come to see you?” York asked. He hadn’t forgot that phone call Thomas had made. He still wanted to know who he’d been talking to. Emily gave him a frown and an imperceptible shake of her head. York realised his mistake just as Thomas’ face twisted up into a scowl.

“You mean George,” Thomas hissed. “No, I didn’t want him to come.”

“It’s okay, Thomas, it doesn’t –” Emily started to say, but he cut across her. Thomas wasn’t done.

“George…” he muttered angrily. “This is his fault. It’s all his fault.” York remembered what George had said, that Thomas blamed him for Carol’s death. That Thomas probably suspected he had killed her. It seemed he had been right.

“Thomas, I think you should know that George was with me when Carol died,” York said gently. “There was nothing he could have done to prevent it at that moment. The two of us were interviewing someone and I cannot be sorry enough that we were both distracted, but there’s no way he could have been there… with Carol.” He hoped that was a tactful enough way to avoid saying ‘he couldn’t have murdered your sister’, and still get his point across. Thomas tightened his hands into fists and dropped them against the table, his face twitching angrily.

“Oh, you don’t know!” he said. “George has a way of controlling people! If he wanted to, he could… he could… he could have just got someone else involved! He hurt her enough when she was alive, what makes you think he ever stopped?” Emily had fallen silent and was trying her best to calm Thomas by rubbing his back, but he refused to settle.

“Thomas,” York said firmly. “I am certain George wasn’t involved in Carol’s death. He was with me. He couldn’t have killed her.”

“What if he asked someone else to do it?” Thomas moaned. He brushed Emily’s hand aside, wrapping his arms around his shoulders defensively. “He could have!”

“Then that person would be the killer, Thomas,” York said. “And I’m certain the same person who killed Carol also killed Quint. I’d bet my entire career on it. Those murders were committed by the same hand.”

“If you say so, York,” Thomas said bitterly. “But if I find out George was involved in this, in any way, I’ll never forgive him. I hope you’ll understand if I don’t come into work until the case is over. I can’t look at him… I just can’t. I know he’s part of this. I know it’s his _fault_. I have some holiday time. I never use it. I just… I just…”

“Thomas, that’s completely understandable, and we’ll manage if you need the time,” York said quickly. “I just hope you know you can rely on us.”

“Yeah, always, Thomas,” Emily agreed. “And… I think it’s wise to try and get away from George.”

“York told you,” Thomas said. “He told you about what was happening between me and George.”

“He did… I’m sorry,” Emily admitted. “But we’re friends, Thomas. I just want you to be safe.”

“Thank you, Emily… I…. I’m glad,” Thomas said slowly. He seemed uncomfortable, but he managed an awkward smile. York wondered if he knew how George felt about Emily, and if he was jealous. It would make sense. If so, it was mature of him to admit he appreciated her friendship. York found himself smiling. It was the best possible ending to the mess of a situation.

“It’s good to see the two of you making up like this,” York said without thinking. Emily looked at him with a confused grin.

“Making up?” she asked. “Thomas and I have always been friends. We’re close! I’ve always cared about him, what are you talking about?”

“Thank you, Emily!” Thomas said hurriedly. As she turned to look at him with surprise, he pulled her into a hug, his skinny arms digging in tightly to her back. Emily blinked, evidently confused, but York understood what was happening. He saw Thomas blink back tears and squeeze his eyes tight shut. He recognised that the hug was Thomas letting go of something, a lot of anger and jealousy that he had built up over a long time. Emily might not have anything to make up for, but Thomas was forgiving her all the same. It was genuinely sweet. The first step Thomas had to take to escape from under George’s thumb. York was glad to see it.

They left the diner a short while later, and Emily offered to take Thomas home. He declined, saying he would actually appreciate having the walk to himself. While his sadness was palpable, he looked more determined, stronger, than he had been before. Whether he was building the strength on his anger towards George, or his newfound maturity regarding Emily, or just drawing it out from a buried place inside of himself, was unclear. What was clear was that he was trying, and neither York nor Emily wanted to interfere. He would no doubt need time to build himself up for his return to a lonely apartment. York expected that going home and finding Carol missing would be when it really hit him that she was gone. It was no wonder he wanted that rush of grief to be a private moment. They said goodbye, and York and Emily began walking back over to the sheriff’s department. The weather was pleasant. It was a good day for a walk.

“Hey, York,” Emily said suddenly. York hmm-ed without breaking stride. “Did you say Olivia was sick at home?”

“Yes, that’s what Nick said,” he acknowledged.

“But… isn’t that her over there?” York looked where she was pointing and, indeed, she was right. At the end of the road was a woman who, there was no doubt, was Olivia. She had her hair loose and was wearing a large coat over her clothes which made her look different to how he was used to seeing her, all neat and prim in her uniform, but it was definitely her. She hadn’t seen them. As they watched she darted down the street, and instinctively York went after her, Emily following behind.

York noticed that Olivia was doing her best to go unnoticed. Aside from the change in hairstyle which, helpfully enough, had the additional effect of covering her face in a soft blonde curtain of hair, and the coat, which was ugly and oversized, definitely not the sort of thing she would normally wear, she was walking quickly and tucking into the buildings and bushes where she could. York caught up to her, and when she noticed him she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Agent York!” she said, when she had settled her heartbeat, a hand fluttering at her chest for effect. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” York apologised. “I was just making sure you weren’t a ghost.”

“A ghost?” she laughed nervously. “Wh-why would I be a ghost?” York smiled darkly back at her.

“It’s just that your husband told us you were in bed, sick. We were just at the diner,” he explained. Olivia looked from him to Emily, her blue eyes clouding with doubt. She ran a hand through her hair, patting at it.

“I was…” she said. “It’s just… I live right down here, but… I needed to go out for a moment. I wanted to… check the weather.” If she had paused anymore times, York thought, she would sound like a broken recording. He wondered what she had really been doing. After all, looking out of the window was enough to find out if it was raining.

“But if you live over there,” Emily asked. “Why were you coming from the other direction?”

“Oh!” Olivia squeaked. “I, uh… I almost felt well enough to go back to work, but… well, when I started walking, I realised I wasn’t.”

“You’re not wearing your uniform, though,” York corrected her, playfully. Olivia began walking in the direction of her house, but they followed. When they got to the corner, she stopped and turned back to them, a fist held to her chest, tensing and tightening with stress.

“Please…” she said. “I just need to get back to bed. I really don’t feel well.”

“Of course, Olivia. Don’t let us keep you. After all, if you’re sick, you really should be at home,” York said. She gave him a shaky smile that didn’t reach her eyes, then hurried off. York watched her go, intrigued.

“What was that about?” Emily asked. York shrugged, smirking to himself.

“Who knows, Emily?” he said. “I have a feeling we’ll find out in time. Olivia is not a very good liar. Don’t you think?” Emily agreed. There was no denying it. Neither of them had bought her story for second. It was obvious she had been out somewhere else. Nick’s hostility made more sense in this new context. Whatever was going on with Olivia, he knew. York recalled his comments at the art gallery a few days ago, how he had lamented the fact that Olivia was never where she said she was going to be. He hadn’t been wrong.

“Does everyone in Greenvale have some kind of… secret life?” Emily sighed. York didn’t know what to tell her. In his experience, everyone had some kind of secret side to themselves that they didn’t share with people. It was just human nature. He was no exception. He doubted Emily was either, although he certainly hoped her secrets were benign.

“Are we still going to meet up this evening?” he asked. Emily nodded, cheering up after her brief moment of existentialism.

“Sure,” she said. “Let me just write down my address for you.” She pulled a small notepad out of her pocket and tore out a page, scribbling something down and then handing it to York. He took it. Her handwriting was messy and rushed, he noticed. It was an endearing scrawl that fit with the rest of her character. He folded the note carefully before tucking it into his jacket.

“Thank you, Emily,” he said warmly. She smiled back at him.

“No problem. Come over around seven thirty, okay?” she said, and he agreed. “Okay then.” She turned around and began strolling vaguely back in the direction of the department. York took a second to breathe. The anticipation of having to try Emily’s cooking was painful, but it was mercifully outweighed by excitement. As he looked up, he accidentally met eyes with someone sitting up in a window across the street. He realised a second later that it was Anna, no doubt staring down at the street from her house. After a moment of hesitation, she waved at him, and he waved back. Then she vanished from the window, back into her house.

“Well, Zach,” York muttered, amusedly. “The Cormacks may be having trouble keeping track of each other, but I bet the Grahams are getting sick of living in each other’s pockets.” He scoffed quietly, setting off after Emily. “At least Anna is safe at home, even if she undoubtedly doesn’t thank her mother for it. I’d hate to see the killer hurt her too.”


	31. Cooking Lessons

Chapter Thirty-One. [ Cooking Lessons ]

When they had got back to the sheriff’s department, George had been waiting to ask them if they’d made any headway in the case. When York told him that there was nothing new to share, he had suggested that York go out and find something. Although ‘suggested’ was not quite how he had done it. York had left all the same, knowing there was nothing useful he could do at the department. He had then spent most of the afternoon looking for a video rental store, to no avail. Emily was right when she said there wasn’t one in Greenvale. Eventually, he was able to find a small store that sold DVDs, although their selection was limited. He picked something out and left, unable to keep from being slightly irritated.

“No wonder they’re starting to kill each other in Greenvale, Zach,” he muttered. “There’s nothing else to do.” He shook it off. “No… no, that’s not fair. There’s no excuse for this murderer. Still…” He smiled to himself. “Can you imagine some of the people we’ve met here sitting down to watch a movie together? Do you think Harry Stewart asks Michael to get a nice romantic comedy to watch with his friends? Or, maybe Brian sits in that shack on rainy nights and watches Casper. Maybe it’s not surprising they don’t have the market for video rentals, Zach.”

It was too early to go over to Emily’s house by the time he was done, so York decided he may as well check in with some of the involved parties in his case. He drove over to the Swery 65 to see how Richard was faring. When he walked in, it was clear that they had only just opened. The place was empty apart from him, Richard, and Sallie. The latter two were together at the end of the bar, Sallie on a barstool leaning over to talk to Richard, one hand against his chest. They looked up when York entered and eased away from each other, Richard pulling out a cloth to wipe down the bar surface.

“Hello, Sallie. Richard,” York said as he walked over to them. Neither met him with a smile.

“Agent York. Here for a drink, or do you need to tell me something?” Richard asked.

“No, I don’t have anything to tell you,” York said apologetically. “I just wanted a drink. But just cola, if that’s all right.” Richard went to fetch it from the fridge.

“So, you’re still wasting time trying to find who did this, right?” Sallie asked. “If you can’t handle it, just let the sheriff do his job. He knows what he’s doing.” York resisted the urge to express doubt over that. He presumed that George and Sallie were a similar age, and had probably known one another for a long time. But a sense of friendly acquaintanceship didn’t make George any more right for the job.

“It’s difficult for someone who’s lived here all their life to be objective,” York said patiently. “The reason I’m here is to see things that someone closer to the people involved might miss.” He left out the fact that George was the least impartial person possible, having been involved with one of the victims, who had themselves been involved with the other victim in the past. Both facts which he had chosen not to divulge to the investigation. No, if George was left to solve the case on his own, then the first person to piss him off would end up being shoved in prison as the Raincoat Killer, while the real murderer would be left to live out their life in comfort.

“Then why haven’t you seen any of those things then, huh?” Sallie asked rudely. “How can we trust you to find Quint’s killer when you’ve done nothing in all this time so far?”

“Here,” Richard said stiffly, putting a glass down in front of York. York noticed that he didn’t disagree with Sallie, which wasn’t surprising. He took a sip of his drink before answering them.

“I’m getting closer to the truth,” he said calmly. Technically, it was true. He may not have any definite answers yet, but he had been learning more and more by the day. He was certain that he would find the killer before leaving Greenvale.

“And how many people are gonna die before you get there, huh?” Sallie asked. York was surprised by her hostility, but then, he supposed she was being defensive because of Richard and his loss.

“None, I hope,” he said, knowing he couldn’t make any promises. “Where is Anna this evening, Sallie?” Sallie glared at him for a moment, as if he was questioning her to undermine her point.

“Anna’s at home,” she said cagily. “She’s locked in, she’ll be fine. And Becky’s with her.”

“Becky?” York asked. That was interesting.

“Yeah, she’s feeling better I guess,” Sallie said, shrugging stiffly. “She wanted to see Anna, so the two of them are at home with the doors locked. I said if they even see an outline on the curtains, they gotta call the cops. They’re smart. Anna is smart. Becky’s… they’ll be fine together.”

“I noticed she came back to work,” York added. “Becky, I mean. You must be right about her feeling better, if she’s able to leave the house now.” He sipped his drink again. It was certainly interesting that Becky was ready to socialise after everything that had happened. It still hadn’t been two weeks since Quint died.

“It’s good she’s moved on,” Richard said, though it was obvious he meant the opposite. York couldn’t blame him. From what he knew, they hadn’t even held a funeral for his son yet, and Quint’s girlfriend was already getting back to her life. If Richard felt some misdirected anger towards Becky, it wasn’t unusual. No doubt he wondered what it would be like if things had been the other way round. If Becky had died, and Quint had lived. It was easy to get stuck on what ifs when something tragic happened. But it wasn’t the way to heal.

“I’m sure Becky hasn’t got past what happened to Quint, she’s just trying to pick up the pieces,” York said. “After all, those of us who are left always have to find a way to keep living.”

“Yeah, those of us,” Sallie said sharply. “Not you. You’re just some outsider, you’re not involved in this.” The comment struck York as overly personal, but he didn’t rise to it. Nothing good could come of arguing with the grieving family.

“I don’t blame Becky for wanting to carry on,” Richard sighed. In a moment, he had gone from hardened to weary, a tired look in his eyes that turned him into a zombie. Anger was the only thing keeping him going, York thought. “She’s eighteen, she’s got a long life to live yet. By the time she’s our age, Quint will just be a distant memory to her. It’s just that it can never go that way for me. In five years, ten years, I’ll still feel his death as strongly as I do tonight. I’ll keep moving, sure, but there’s a missing piece. Someone’s come and torn it out of my life like they’ve ripped a photograph in half. It might be gone, but you’ll be able to see the hole forever. Just a big, black, empty nothing by my side. I don’t wish that on Becky. But that’s my life now. Always.”

“Richard, I understand that feeling better than you know, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it,” York said seriously. “But I will find who killed your son.” Richard locked eyes with him for a moment and an understanding passed between them. Richard realised, York decided, that he wasn’t merely saying things when he talked about knowing how he felt. For the first time, Richard seemed to warm up to him. York was glad to see it.

“You know… if it’ll be useful,” Richard started to say, uncertainly. Sallie watched him, frowning, as if she knew what he was going to suggest. “If it would help, and only because I trust you’ll be respectful, you can look through his things. Quint’s things. His trailer is out the back of the bar, I’ll give you the key.” This was a surprise. York hadn’t asked before because he doubted he’d be given permission and, in all honesty, had doubted the usefulness of going through Quint’s home. Still, if the option was there, he was going to take it.

“Thank you, Richard,” he said, trying to sound as genuinely appreciative as he felt. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning for it.”

“Sure,” Richard agreed. “Thanks. I know you’re trying.” York finished his drink and said goodbye to the two of them, getting a similar farewell from Richard and a brief sneer from Sallie. When he was safely outside and out of sight again, he shook his head.

“Zach, do you think Sallie thinks I manipulated Richard into letting us into Quint’s trailer?” he asked himself. “I hope not. Still, she doesn’t like me much. No, it’s more accurate to say she doesn’t like anyone much. At least, not outside of Richard and her daughter. I don’t blame her, but maybe she’ll change her mind when we catch the murderer. I hope so. And tomorrow we’re going to see what Quint left behind for us. Can you feel the excitement, Zach?”

He realised it was still early to be going over to Emily’s house, but there wasn’t much else to do for now. After a moment of consideration, he decided to drive over to the Milk Barn and pick up some bits and pieces for dinner. If Emily’s cooking turned out to be inedible, it would be nice to have a backup option.

♦ ♦ ♦

When Emily answered the door, she found York standing proudly on her doorstep with a brown paper bag in one hand and a new DVD of War of the Worlds in the other. He was obviously more excited for tonight than she had realised, if he’d made this effort. She hadn’t done much preparing herself. There was a recipe book sitting open on her kitchen counter, and she was wearing a light blue dress from her summer wardrobe, but that was the extent of her planning. She ushered York inside.

“Emily, this is nice,” York said politely, glancing around her house. “I like your choice of art.” He was looking at a print of a seagull repeated over four coloured squares on the wall above the phone. Emily realised he was serious, which made her want to laugh. She liked to buy unusual, gaudy art pieces and stick them up on the walls. It was an interest that had started with film posters and grown from there. No part of her actually thought the pictures looked good to an objective observer, they were just her own personal touch, something that made the house hers.

They walked through to the kitchen together and Emily went to stand behind the counter, looking down at the book she had open. York followed her gaze and shuddered at the thought of trying one of her recipes. He put the bag down on the counter beside the book, and casually began the cooking interrogation.

“So then, Emily,” he said. “What are you planning on making tonight?”

“Stew,” she answered, distracted by reading. “I was thinking of making this stew recipe. I’ve tried it before and it didn’t come out too badly. I burnt it last time, but I can be more careful about the timing with you here.”

“With me here?” York asked. “What happened last time?”

“Oh, yeah…” Emily said slowly. “I put it on to warm up, then went to watch TV for a while. There was a movie on and I got distracted, so I ended up coming back to it about an hour late. It was burnt by then.” York was stunned by how casually she said it. Emily was a good police officer, but it seemed that capable attitude got discarded with her uniform. As an agent of good, it was practically his duty to help her.

“Emily, I brought some things with me,” he said quickly, digging into the grocery bag. “Some cheese, that’ll be helpful.”

“Why do we need cheese in a beef stew?” Emily asked. “Do you just put a whole block in the pot to melt?” York felt faint. He had physically fought with serial killers, and still tonight would be his greatest challenge to date.

“No, Emily,” he insisted. “I don’t think you’re ready to make a stew. Tell me, do you have any flour?” Emily shrugged her shoulders.

“Yeah, I think so. In the cupboard. It comes in the blue bag, right?” She turned around to look for it and York took the opportunity to shake his head in despair. This would be a long night.

As it turned out, it could have gone worse. York let Emily do the actual cooking, even when he was desperate to intervene. He had to repeatedly ball his fists when he watched her try to flatten a lump of butter with her elbow, but he managed to hold back. He advised from the side line and made sure she stuck to the recipe as closely as possible. Eventually, they were sitting together at the dining table eating their work.

“This is good!” Emily said. “Macaroni and cheese, maybe that was a better idea than stew.”

“Cheese covers all sins,” York said, smirking. “If you add enough of it, you can save almost any meal. An overcooked burger becomes a regular cheeseburger. An undercooked spaghetti bolognese with cheese added is much more palatable. That’s why I brought some with me. I had a premonition I might need it.”

“You thought my cooking was going to need saving, did you?” Emily snorted. York hoped she was amused rather than annoyed, but it was hard to tell. Probably both. “Well, this is good food. Maybe it’s just as well the detective they sent to work with us is _psychic_.”

“I’m not psychic, Emily, I’m just experienced,” York said. “Everyone is capable of seeing things outside the normal scope of human perception with a little effort.”

“You mean like how a meal will turn out?” Emily said, smiling.

“Uh, yes. Yes, that’s what I mean,” York said stiffly. He had almost let that conversation get away from him. Almost ended up talking about something quite different. They continued to eat and silence came over the meal. When York looked up at Emily, he saw she was picking at her food with her fork, clearly distracted. After a while, she sighed and looked back at him.

“You know,” she began. “I was thinking about what you said about your parents. I’m sorry to just bring that up out of the blue, over dinner. I hope it doesn’t spoil the meal.”

“I’m not that sensitive about it,” York said gently. “It was a long time ago, after all.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “I just kept thinking about it because, well.” She sighed to herself. “There’s something I wanted to tell you. I don’t really talk about it myself, but… after what you said, I thought I might want to talk to someone about it. You, specifically, I mean.”

“Yes, what is it?” York asked. He waited. It took Emily a moment to form the right words.

“I was going to tell you in the diner a couple of days ago, but we got off topic,” she explained. “When I was young, I also lost a parent. My mother.” York sat up straight at that. This was not what he had expected to talk about over diner. “She died just before I finished high school. Cancer. Your story reminded me of it, and I thought maybe you’d understand what it was like.”

“I do, Emily. I understand,” York said softly. “I imagine that was hard, especially at that age. For me, I was so young I had plenty of time to get used to life without them. But she was with you for your whole childhood, then disappeared just as you became an adult.”

“That’s right,” Emily agreed. She nodded absently to herself. “I really loved my mother. She was a wonderful person. Kind, understanding, but she still didn’t let me get away with things. I have never stopped respecting her. When she died, I suppose, my life sort of stopped for a while. I was thinking about going off to college, but I ended up staying in Greenvale. Then suddenly, it just seemed too late. So, I ended up working for the sheriff and, well… here I am. Eight years later, I’m still here.”

“What about your father?” York asked, noticing that he had been absent from the story so far. Emily sighed gently before carrying on.

“He was there, sure, but he was always more interested in work than his daughter,” she admitted. “He traded stocks, and he was usually away for work. When he wasn’t, his mind was still on it anyway. He tried to be there for me a little after she died, but it didn’t stick. He doesn’t live here anymore, and we rarely see each other. I think that’s just what happens sometimes.”

“He sounds like my own father,” York said. “He was very dedicated to his work, too.”

“Well, aren’t we a pair,” Emily said. She put on a strained smile and they both exchanged a small, tired laugh at the past. “I can’t imagine leaving Greenvale now,” she added suddenly.

“It seems to be that kind of town,” York agreed. “Even I am beginning to feel a sense of home here.” As he said it, he looked down at the table and the plate with the food they had cooked together sitting on it. He nudged it with a fork to break himself out of the moment. It was true, though. Although he’d met a few people who had come to Greenvale from outside – Emily, Keith, Ushah, to name a few – they had all seemed to get stuck here, in one way or another. Greenvale drew people in and kept them, lining up its new arrivals like dolls on a shelf. Even Forrest Kaysen, who was an outsider, was repeatedly drawn back to the town. York felt a twinge in his chest at the thought of Greenvale’s perennial sapling salesman, and brushed it aside. He hoped this town was going to let him go when he was done.

“Are you nearly done?” Emily asked and it took York a while to realise what she meant. She was looking at his plate. She had finished her own food.

“Yes, almost,” he said, and set about finishing off the rest of the mac and cheese. It was too buttery, really, and the texture was grittier than it should be, but it had been edible. He was just glad she hadn’t put any ketchup on it. When he finished, Emily took their plates and put them in the sink. York had already noticed a stack of encrusted and heat-damaged pans by the side of the sink, and a large smoke stain up against one wall. After that, he had decided not to look at the kitchen again. For the sake of his heart.

“Now,” Emily said, “didn’t you want to watch a movie together?” York leapt out of his chair. This was the part of the evening he was most looking forward to.

“Yes, I did!” he said excitedly. “I brought one. Shall we…?” Emily smiled in a way that suggested she found his behaviour funny, and led him through to the living room, where she sat down on the sofa, under a high contrast poster of a whale. York went across to the TV to put the film on before coming to sit down next to her.

“So what are we watching?” she asked.

“War of the Worlds, the 2005 version,” York answered. “It was all they had. I would have rather got the 1953 original, but I suppose grocery stores aren’t known for their collections of cinema history.”

“Are you still bitter there isn’t a place to rent videos in Greenvale?” Emily asked, laughing. “I tend to pick some up anytime I drive out of town. It’s almost nice not being spoilt for choice, it makes it easier to decide.” She eased back into the sofa as the movie began, ready to watch.

“I can’t wait for the scene where the red weed has overtaken everything,” York said. “It changes the landscape of the whole world. It moves the playing field. The characters have only had one real advantage over the aliens throughout the movie, and that’s that they’re fighting in their own backyard. Earth. When the red weed overtakes everything, it’s the moment when they realise even that has been taken from them. The familiarity of their home is gone. They’ve stepped into a nightmare.” He paused, shaking his head slightly to get rid of the buzzing in his ears. “Of course, at the end –”

“Hey, hey!” Emily snapped, grinning. “Don’t spoil it! Let’s watch.”

“I’m sorry. Yes, let’s.” York settled down beside her and they watched as the movie carried them through. True to his word, when the red weed appeared, York gasped and clutched his hands together, fascinated. They watched until the end and when the credits began rolling, York didn’t feel much like moving. He sat with a small smile on his face and waited for Emily to suggest he leave. After a while of nothing, he looked over at her. She had fallen asleep. He hoped she hadn’t missed the ending. She looked very peaceful sleeping, with all the stress and responsibility of work having disappeared. He reached out and gently touched her hand before getting up.

“Well Zach, I think that’s our cue,” he muttered. He went and turned off the TV, checked to make sure everything in the kitchen was off and then, with a last look at Emily, turned off the light. He stepped out of the front door and made sure it shut behind him. Then he walked off towards his car. It was pretty late. What with the emotional strain of helping Thomas leave the hospital, he wasn’t surprised Emily had fallen asleep.

“Still, what an interesting evening,” York said to himself. “Don’t you think so, Zach? I’m glad we did it. Emily’s cooking wasn’t that bad, maybe there’s hope for her yet. I mean, it’s nothing like Thomas’ cooking, but then he seems like an expert amateur. I don’t think she’ll be reaching his level anytime soon.” He tapped against the steering wheel idly as he thought. “I hope she had a good evening as well,” he added. “I had fun. It’s not often we get to do something like this, just relax with someone else. I mean, you know as well as I do what our social calendar looks like. Emily feels… different.” He started the car up. It wasn’t a good idea to stay out too late. “She reminds me of something I used to feel. What is it…?”

As York began his drive back to the hotel, he tried to remember. Then, suddenly, it came to him.

“Safe,” he said. “She makes me feel safe.”


	32. On the Trail

Chapter Thirty-Two. [ On the Trail ]

York stood outside Quint’s trailer with the key in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Richard had seemed less certain this morning about letting York look in his son’s home, Sallie having no doubt made him worry last night, but York had assured him that he wouldn’t disturb anything, and that everything would go back exactly where he found it. He drained the last of the coffee and tossed the cup into a trashcan before unlocking the door.

The place was decorated with hallucinogenic 70s style wallpaper and wood-panelled floors. York had to blink at the sight of it. It was elaborate for the inside of a trailer. He immediately noticed a patch of floor that was heavily scratched where he assumed Quint had worked on his bike. There was a wrench sitting in the empty space now, waiting to be used.

“If only George could find that bike,” York muttered. “It would tell us a lot. But, then, I suppose that’s why the killer disposed of it.” Their killer wasn’t stupid, that much had been proven again and again. If they had left Quint’s bike wherever he had been forced to abandon it, it would have told York and the others a great deal about how they had ambushed him. Where they had come from that night. It could easily have been a breakthrough clue.

“Let’s see what Quint _did_ leave for us then, Zach,” York said to himself. There wasn’t much left lying around in the living area. Aside from keeping a motorcycle inside, Quint had been a fairly neat person. There was a used coffee mug sitting by the TV, and a basketball on the floor by the sofa, but that was it. York walked through to the bedroom. The bed itself was still made. There was a collection of typically teenage posters on the wall, and a rack of shirts hanging up beside the bed. York patted them down to see if Quint had left anything in the pockets, but couldn’t find anything out of place. He checked the dresser and, again, found only clothes. There was a vase of now dead flowers on top, although he couldn’t tell if they had died before Quint himself had, or if they had since faded from neglect. He looked in the bathroom on his way back, but there was nothing of interest. Just a few streaks of toothpaste left in the sink.

The only thing in the trailer that seemed to stay messy was a large bookshelf near the kitchen. Quint had clearly used it as a dumping ground for anything he didn’t have a place for. There were some empty beer bottles stacked up as part of a collection, tubs of protein powder, and a photo frame with a picture of Quint and Becky in it. York picked it up. They looked happy, posing together with no knowledge of what was coming. York put it back, turning it face down. He didn’t want to know they were looking back at him while he searched. There was enough pressure already.

The bottom shelf was smothered in magazines and books. There were plenty dedicated to bikes and some for music. York noticed a philosophy textbook among the pile and picked it up, surprised that Quint would have kept hold of it seeing as he had just graduated from high school. Flipping open the cover revealed the truth.

“He was a teenage boy, after all,” York muttered, amused. “It seems the most incriminating things in here are some smutty magazines, Zach. I didn’t think we’d find much.” He went to put the book back where he’d taken it from, but upset the pile of magazines, causing a paper landslide. Remembering his promise to Richard not to make a mess, he began sorting it back into a sensible shape. As he did so, he discovered a small magazine insert that he at first assumed had merely fallen out of one of the others. But looking it over, he could see that the pages had been dog-eared. It had clearly been read.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” York muttered. “Not from our high school hero.” The insert was filled with jewellery ads, and the pages that were dog-eared displayed a collection of engagement rings. Quint must have been browsing. Despite what he had told Richard, York decided this small thing wouldn’t be missed. He curled the insert up and put it in his jacket.

“I think I know where we’re going next, Zach,” York said, smiling to himself. “If Quint was planning on buying one of these rings, I have an idea who the recipient was going to be. At least, I hope I’m right. If we mention this to Becky only to learn it was for Carol after all, we might break her heart.” He reached for a cigarette as he finished his thought. “Though, even Quint would have had to know that Carol wasn’t the kind of girl to say yes. Maybe now that they’re both dead, eh Zach?”

He recalled Sallie mentioning that Becky had been with Anna last night. He suspected that, if Sallie and Richard had let their evening run on, Becky might have stayed over at Anna’s house. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to imagine her trying to get home in the middle of the night. As far as he knew, she didn’t even have a car.

“Well, Zach,” York muttered. “It looks like this trailer contained more than we thought. Now we’re not just on the trail of a killer, but a romance.”

♦ ♦ ♦

York knocked on the door of the Graham house and waited. He hoped Becky was still here. The drive over to her house was a tedious one. He heard footsteps inside, but whoever was there didn’t open the door.

“Hello?” It was Anna’s voice. She sounded nervous. At least she was taking her mother’s advice about safety to heart.

“Hello, Anna,” York called through the door. “It’s Agent York. Can you let me in?”

“Oh… why?” Anna asked. “Uh… what do you need?”

“Actually, I want to know if Becky’s with you,” York said. There was a pause.

“Yeah, she is,” Anna answered. “Do you need her for something? She’s like only just got up.”

“That’s all right, Anna. It’s about Quint, actually,” York explained. “I won’t bother the two of you for long.” Another pause as Anna considered. Then there was the sound of the door unlocking, and a second later she appeared in the doorframe. She was still wearing pyjamas and had the messy hair of someone who had just crawled out of bed.

“Come in then, I guess,” she said. “Becky’s in the kitchen.” York followed her inside. Becky was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of her. She was also wearing pyjamas, but had thrown a jacket over the top. She jolted in fright when she saw him.

“Who died now?” Becky asked frantically, letting her spoon drop into her bowl with a clang. York was quick to reassure her.

“No-one, no-one’s dead,” York promised. “I just have a question for you, that’s all.”

“I don’t know anything useful!” Becky snapped, emboldened now that she knew there was no new tragedy to fear. “I just want to get past everything that happened, okay?”

“Becky, come on…” Anna muttered, trying to keep the peace. She went to sit down next to her friend, in front of her own bowl of cereal, running a hand through her messy hair.

“Is Sallie here?” York asked. Becky shook her head, easily distracted by the question.

“No, uh… she said she was gonna stay out,” Becky said vaguely.

“It’s okay, my mom isn’t gonna like care if he knows,” Anna sighed. “She was with Richard Dunn all night,” she told York. “So Becky stayed over, you know, in case.”

“That was very wise,” York said, smiling. Anna gave him a brief smile of acknowledgement in return. “So will your mother be back soon, Anna?”

“I dunno, maybe?” Anna said. “She’s probably still asleep, it’s kind of early for her.” There was, York noticed, a touch of venom in her words. No doubt Anna didn’t fully approve of her mother’s drinking habits. That was, he assumed, what she was referring to.

“Now Becky,” York said, returning to the matter at hand. “I was searching Quint’s trailer this morning, and I wanted to ask you about something I found.” Becky stared back at him like an animal in a trap. No wonder, he admitted to himself. This was surely going to be a painful reminder.

“What?” she asked quietly. York withdrew the magazine insert from his pocket.

“This,” he said, dropping it down on the table in front of her. Becky looked down. “Do you know why Quint was browsing engagement ring adverts?”

“Oh… shit,” Becky sighed softly. Anna quickly put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed, but a cloud had come over Becky at the memory. It was a while before she answered. “He…” she said. “He mentioned it to me a few times. He was kind of like a little kid. Getting married was this cute idea, he never really… he didn’t think it through much.”

“Becky, you don’t have to talk about it if you’re gonna get like majorly upset,” Anna whispered. Becky shook her head.

“Thanks, Anna, but no, I’m okay,” she said. “Agent York is just trying to help. Quint did want to get married, but I wasn’t sure. It seemed too fast. Then when I started worrying or whatever, he panicked about it and thought it was cause he didn’t have enough money to support me or something? I said that wasn’t even a big deal. He just got so weird about it, like he needed money to prove he was a good enough man to marry me.”

“That’s interesting,” York said. “Is there any chance Quint tried to make money dangerously? Maybe by getting involved with some bad people?” He had seen people die over less.

“No, there’s no way,” Becky said insistently. “He was kind of like that at first, like he was talking about all kinds of stupid risky stuff. He even mentioned he could start selling drugs or something, but I think he was just joking. He never even touched anything like that. I managed to convince him in the end, that money didn’t matter. We could be together anyway.”

“Is that so?” York asked.

“Yeah,” Becky said. “He was gonna keep working for his dad after graduation. I was kind of thinking about applying to college, but I wanted to wait a year. I didn’t want to just rush off. I think if… things had worked out… then maybe he would have moved with me when I went. Then I guess maybe we could… would have… got married later.” She sighed and looked down at the page in front of her again, gently touching one of the pictures with her thumb.

“I’m very sorry,” York said. “This kind of tragedy tends to derail our plans.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Becky,” Anna said softly. “You can come with me when I move to Seattle, yeah? You and me’ll be fine. We’ll be okay.” She hugged her friend closer with the arm around Becky’s shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me this, Becky,” York said. “It’s been helpful. It really seems as if Quint did everything right. There’s no obvious thread to link him to his killer.”

“He was a good person!” Becky shouted. His musings had offended her, York thought. Or offended Quint’s memory, anyway. “He didn’t do anything to get killed. He was just picked off by some random psycho!”

“I don’t think this was the work of a, as you put it, ‘psycho’, Becky,” York said, frowning. It wasn’t a word he particularly liked. “This was a planned attack. That doesn’t mean he did anything to deserve it or bring it upon himself.”

“Quint was probably just an easy target or something,” Anna added, trying to reassure Becky in some small way. “He was so trusting, so he wouldn’t have thought to defend himself. He was probably just trying to like help someone out or something, and they took advantage of him.”

“Yeah… he was, he would have done,” Becky agreed. “Some sicko just killed him because he was too good, he would never have seen it coming.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Anna said. “But Agent York will catch them, right? You will?” She looked up at him suddenly and York quickly nodded in agreement.

“Of course I will,” he said. “I’m slowly narrowing in on the killer.”

“Really? Do you know who it is?” Anna gasped. York had to admit that wasn’t quite the case.

“No, not yet,” he confessed. “But more evidence is piling up. It won’t be long now.”

“Wow… okay, well good,” Anna said. “Becky, you hear that? He’s gonna catch them soon, yeah?” Becky nodded numbly. She was clearly done with answering questions today. York couldn’t blame her for not wanting to think about her dead boyfriend. If someone he loved like that was killed, he might also want to put them out of his mind. At least while he recovered. Becky wasn’t quite as strong as he’d thought when he’d seen her back at work at the Milk Barn. It was no surprise, really. The real healing couldn’t begin until the killer was caught.

“Thank you both,” York said again. “I’ll leave you alone now.” Anna clambered up from her chair at his words.

“Sure, thanks,” she said. “I want to get some breakfast anyway. I am sooo hungry!” She went over to the kitchen cupboard and reached for a box of cereal. York glanced down at the abandoned bowl where she had been sitting.

“Weren’t you already eating when I arrived?” he asked. Anna looked at him, then at Becky, who stared back at her and, York noticed, shot her a glare.

“Uh…” Anna said slowly. “Yeah? But it’s gone all soggy, and I barely got to eat it. I wanted the kind with marshmallows anyway.”

“All right,” York said. “Goodbye then. Anna, Becky.” He went for the door. Neither of the girls moved an inch until he was safely outside. He glanced back at the house as a smirk formed on his lips. He took a few steps away from the door before speaking.

“Well, Zach, it looks like Richard was more right than he knew,” he muttered to himself. “Becky seems to be moving on at a record pace! I wonder if Sallie has any idea what’s going on in her house. You know what they say. When the cat’s away, the mice will play.” He strolled back to his car, wondering just who Becky had been sharing her cereal with.


	33. Someone Else

Chapter Thirty-Three. [ Someone Else ]

After wrapping up his investigation of Quint’s love life, York stopped at a pay phone to let Emily know he was working alone today. She seemed fine with the idea, reporting that George was locked away in his office dealing with paperwork and had seemingly failed to notice that York and Thomas were absent. Or, if he had noticed, he wasn’t commenting on it. The reminder that Thomas was at home made York think he should stop by and visit him again, just to see how he was coping. After he was done with work, he’d make sure he did. As the conversation reached a natural end, York found himself unwilling to hang up. He wanted to mention something about their dinner together, but Emily hadn’t brought it up and he wasn’t sure how to.

“Did you like the ending?” he blurted out eventually, immediately regretting it.

“The ending of what?” Emily asked. He wished he could at least see her face and tell if she was smiling off his stupid comment. He tapped against the edge of the phone and chewed on his lip, hoping his next line wouldn’t come out so badly.

“Of the… uh, the movie,” he explained. “War of the Worlds.”

“Oh, yes!” Emily said. She sounded happy, genuine. He was glad. “I think I fell asleep just as it was finishing, but I remember him getting to the house and his son coming out. I was glad they managed to reunite in the end.”

“Yes, it’s a good ending,” York agreed. “Even though people have died, you can still take comfort in the fact that people who love each other are able to be together in the end. Sometimes, that’s the best ending we can hope for.”

“Exactly, you’re right,” Emily said. “Well, I should go. I was about to make some lunch. With Thomas off work, I’m getting some real practice in. Soon I’ll be able to make anything I want!” York could not second her excitement, but he politely hmm-ed in agreement. They said goodbye, and he hung up the phone.

“I’m glad to hear she watched it all, Zach,” York muttered. “Maybe next time we’ll be able to find one of our favourites to show her. I wonder if we can get a copy of Ladyhawke out here in the boondocks?” He grinned. “Anyway, Zach. We have somewhere to go. George and I may not agree much on our approach to catching this criminal, but he has been kind enough to give me a good lead.”

♦ ♦ ♦

A while later, York was standing outside the art gallery. He hadn’t forgotten the conversation he’d overheard yesterday between George and Diane, where she had complained about someone following her. It would be foolish to ignore it. He knocked hard on the gallery door and waited. A few minutes passed, and then Diane opened the door with a mild, controlled scowl.

“You know this is a public building,” she said. “The door is open during visiting hours.”

“But I’m here to see you, not your paintings,” York said cheerfully. “This is the easiest way to get you to come to the door.” Diane’s face remained unmoved and she walked into the gallery without a word. York followed her in. Diane went and sat on the edge of an unattended reception desk. It occurred to York that it was odd for her to run the whole place by herself. Maybe at one point in time, when Greenvale had had a larger population, it hadn’t been the case. Or perhaps not. She was, after all, the kind of person who liked her solitude.

“What made you want to own an art gallery, Diane?” he asked, approaching her.

“You didn’t come here just to ask me that, surely, Agent,” she said coolly, folding her legs back and forth like ripples on a pond.

“No, you’re right, as usual,” York answered. “I was just curious.”

“I enjoy art,” she said. “As you can no doubt guess, using those years of profiling training. Art can be many things to many people, but they’re all locked up in the frame. It can’t ever surprise you. Not once you’ve seen it.”

“Unlike people,” York suggested. She let her face shift into a distant smile. “People are what I wanted to talk to you about,” he went on. “Specifically, the person who has been following you.” Now, her smile disappeared, and she became visibly angry. York still marvelled at how human she became when she let the mask drop.

“Agent. That’s not any of your business. I haven’t reported anything like that to the police.” She had gone rigid like a statue. She wasn’t controlling the situation and, York could tell, it frustrated her beyond belief.

“You reported it to George,” York reasoned.

“No,” Diane disagreed. “I told him, as a friend, about it. I didn’t intend to file a report. I’m merely getting tired of it. There’s no crime and no danger, so, I do not need the help of the police.”

“Diane,” York said carefully. He paused to take out a cigarette, thinking he might need it if they were going to keep walking in circles for a while. “I can’t speak for you of course, but if someone was stalking me, and there was a murderer on the loose, then I would be… mildly concerned, at least.”

“Would you?” Diane laughed in her detached, absent way. “Well, we’re not the same person, are we, Agent York?” Clearly not, York thought.

“You’re not at all worried that the person following you might be the killer?” York asked incredulously. He could understand that Diane was strong, fearless in the way she acted, but she wasn’t immortal. Surely, any normal person would worry.

“No. Not at all,” she said, darkly amused. “That person is not your killer, Agent. If that’s something you think, then, well, you really have no idea who you’re looking for, do you?”

“Perhaps not,” York said stiffly, staring back at Diane and her twisted, entertained, untimely smile. “Still, I want you to tell me who it is.”

“You really aren’t as smart as you think you are,” Diane sneered. “Didn’t you come here one day when he was here? I would have thought you had all the information you needed already.”

“Nick.” York remembered. He had indeed seen him shouting at her one day, although perhaps it was the open, face-to-face aggression that had made him fail to realise Nick was Diane’s stalker.

“Congratulations, you’ve solved the puzzle,” Diane said. She calmly swiped the cigarette from his hand and dropped it onto the floor, stamping it out with her heel. She had done it before he realised what was happening. “Nick and I are old friends,” she went on. “But we’ve fallen out lately.”

“How did you know I saw the two of you arguing?” York asked. “I thought you went back inside.”

“I did, but I’m not so easily fooled, Agent,” Diane assured him. “I knew you were there from the moment you drove up to the gallery. I do have ears, and eyes. There are windows to look out of in this old building.” She paused, slowly turning her face into a wide, eerie smile. York found himself taking half a step back. It was less a smile than it was her baring her teeth, he thought. “I,” she went on, her voice strong and sharp, “know a lot more than people like you might think.”

“You do, do you?” York asked when he recovered from the minor shock. “Do you know who the killer is, then? You seem certain it isn’t Nick.”

“Nick doesn’t have that kind of thing in him,” Diane scoffed. “Believe me. Our friendship has lasted a long time, and I think the only thing to agitate him to action during our time together was what finally ended it. Nick, as a killer? It’s illogical. His only excitement in life is art, and it’s always been that way. Just ask Olivia.”

“Ah yes, Olivia,” York said. “She has her own secrets, doesn’t she?”

“As we all do, Agent,” Diane agreed darkly.

“I notice you’re not rushing to defend her,” York pointed out. “Nick can’t be a killer, he’s impassionate, but Olivia doesn’t get the same acknowledgement.” Diane smirked and looked away from York, slowly tapping her fingernails on the desk while she drew out her answer.

“There’s more to Olivia than meets the eye. She’s not the field mouse you or her husband think she is,” Diane said finally. “Does that make her a killer? Well, that’s your job to decide, isn’t it? Not mine.” She looked back at him and he was sure she was having fun with their discussion. More fun than was appropriate.

“Diane, surely you don’t want to watch people die,” York said sombrely. “None of us do. Other than the killer themselves, of course. Your sister’s boyfriend was the first to die, I’m sure you remember. Even if Becky and you aren’t close, you must feel some compassion for her loss.”

“I do,” Diane agreed. “But I can’t control what other people do. The only people who can change what happens now are the police, and the killer. And I’m neither of those things.” She smiled dreamily. There was no empathy in her expression.

“Have you spoken to Becky recently?” York asked, pushing on. “She’s starting to feel better. She’s gone back to work.”

“I’m glad,” Diane said unemotionally. “She should be moving on.”

“Yes, it’s interesting you say that,” York said carefully. “Tell me, do you know if Becky had any interest in anyone outside of Quint? If, for example, as has happened, he was to exit her life, is there anyone else she might move on to?”

“Oh, has my sister found someone else already?” Diane laughed softly. “That’s good. She shouldn’t feel guilty. The people left alive should never waste their lives thinking of what the dead would want. I just hope her taste doesn’t cross over with mine at all. Wouldn’t that be the real crime, Agent?”

“I’m glad you think this is funny,” York said coldly. “I can’t agree. Does that mean you don’t know who Becky might end up turning to for comfort?”

“I haven’t spoken to her, so anything I tell you would just be speculation,” Diane replied. “What can I say? Becky always had a normal interest in boys. Quint was just what floated to the top.” She leant back where she was sitting, cocking her head to the side. “I’m not much for other people’s gossip, Agent. You should ask someone else. Does that hospital receptionist still have her nose in everyone else’s business?”

“You’re talking about Fiona,” York said. He felt a brief twinge of defensiveness. He liked Fiona. She was one of the most pleasant people he’d spoken to in Greenvale, and unlike everyone else, she didn’t seem to have some hidden darkness to her life. He didn’t want to hear Diane slander her.

“Yes, that’s her. She enjoys gossiping. Ask her for my sister’s relationship update,” Diane said. “Or, you could ask no-one, and leave her alone to heal in peace.” There was a hint, just a small hint, of protectiveness in her voice.

“I doubt that Fiona would know about this,” York said. “She and Becky aren’t in the same social circles, so unless Becky had started dating someone from the hospital, she wouldn’t be able to tell me anything useful.”

“You don’t think my sister has managed to start dating a doctor, do you?” Diane asked, smirking to herself. “I’ll admit I would be impressed with her, if that was the case.”

“Ushah, perhaps,” York suggested. He wasn’t familiar with any other doctors Diane could be talking about. She seemed to find the idea amusing.

“Yes indeed!” Diane laughed darkly. “Good luck to her. There won’t be any familial disagreements over that. The doctor and I are apparently not to each other’s tastes.”

“What does that mean?” York asked, frowning.

“I don’t think he enjoys redheads,” Diane answered. “Now that’s something that Fiona and I both know, isn’t it?” She smirked to herself and, as York was trying to decide if she was being cryptic or just obtuse, she got to her feet. “Well then, Agent. This was been an interesting distraction, but I have orders to handle, so you’ll have to leave. Keep an eye on Becky for me.”

“I will,” York said seriously. He had every intention of keeping Becky safe. With Quint and Carol being the killer’s first two targets, it wasn’t hard to imagine Becky following. “And I will leave. Thank you, Diane. As always, this has been illuminating.”

“Hasn’t it?” she agreed, and led him to the door. As soon as he was outside, she shut it firmly behind him, and he was left out in the warm air, little better off than he had been when he’d arrived. He took out a cigarette to replace the one he’d failed to finish earlier.

“Now then, Zach,” he muttered as he lit it. “I think we should pay Nick a visit.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Olivia was in work today, he noticed. York had taken up a seat at a corner table and could see her buzzing around the room, taking orders. Nick was tucked away in the kitchen and York hadn’t so much as made eye contact with him yet. He was going to line his stomach first, before Nick had a chance to kick him out.

“Hello… Agent York,” Olivia said hesitantly as she finally approached him. “What can I get you this afternoon?” York glanced over the menu. He already knew what it would be.

“A sandwich please, Olivia. Turkey. And some coffee.” He smiled and she went off to get it. He leant back in his chair and took a moment to breathe. There was some base need to purge the stale air of the art gallery from his lungs, and take in some of the artificially friendly diner glow instead. He wondered how Diane could stand living in that dark, musty place. But then, she was almost like one of the exhibits. She probably wouldn’t belong anywhere else. He imagined a younger Diane, living with Becky and their parents. There was no way of making the picture look right. She just didn’t fit.

“Was she always that cold, do you think, Zach?” he muttered. “Or did family life take a toll?” A while later, Olivia returned with his lunch and he thanked her and settled down to eat it. It was as good as ever. Whatever else there was to Nick, the man could cook. When he was done, he waited until Olivia and Nick were both in the kitchen, then strode over to talk to them. It was time to unpick the delicate knot that was the Cormacks.

“Get out of my kitchen!” Nick shouted the second he saw him.

“I just want to talk,” York said, raising his hands in surrender.

“I don’t care, you’re a health hazard, get out!” Nick snapped. York obliged, removing his foot from its place half an inch into the kitchen and going to the window. Sadly, it did not seem to calm Nick. Olivia stood numbly beside him, saying nothing.

“Nick, Olivia,” York began. “I have a question.”

“You think I want to answer any more of your fucking questions?” Nick snarled. “Get out of my diner! Before I ban you!”

“Nick…” Olivia said delicately.

“It’s fine, Olivia,” York said. “I can handle myself. Now, Nick.” He smiled politely, as if it would improve what he was going to say. “Diane tells me you’ve been following her.”

“Nick!” Olivia shrieked. “Have you?!” Nick’s eyes darted to his wife and her horrified expression, then back to York. He scowled.

“Have you been stalking Diane, Nick?” York asked again.

“No! I haven’t been stalking her, is that what she said?” Nick snapped. York didn’t reply. He’d rather hear what Nick had to say for himself than risk leading him. “God! All right, yes, I went to talk to her a few times, but stalking? Please! I’m done with that woman.”

“You were, weren’t you?” Olivia said, her voice rising in pitch. “You’ve been following her again… I thought I could trust you!”

“Olivia, don’t start with me,” Nick said coldly. “Is this a fight you want to have here? In front of him?” Olivia looked at York and shook her head.

“Please, Olivia, if there’s something you want to say, you can ignore me,” York assured her. “Just tell your husband exactly what the problem is.”

“Agent York, I… I don’t…” Olivia began, but Nick stepped in front of her, blocking her from York’s view. He folded his arms firmly across his chest and Olivia was left to peek out from behind his back.

“Don’t try anything with my wife,” Nick said sharply. “Leave her out of it. She’s none of your business.” York couldn’t resist smiling. It was too funny. If Nick thought his machismo would actually put a wrench in York’s investigation, he was about to be sorely corrected.

“So you have nothing to tell me about why you’ve been following Diane?” he asked. “How about why the two of you have fallen out?”

“Because she’s selfish and doesn’t care who she hurts,” Nick spat. “Trust me, Diane and I have been friends a long time. Good friends, too. I trusted her, you know? Yeah, we mostly talked about art and stuff, and that might not seem important to everyone, but it was to me. I cared about her, and I thought she cared about me. She even talked about buying one of my paintings for her gallery. Not that I’m very good. Still, it meant something to me, all of it. So believe me when I say, I wouldn’t end our friendship over nothing.” He punctuated his story with a glare. It was interesting, York thought. He was certainly willing to admit that something massive had come between them, which was incriminating when he was accused of stalking her, but he wouldn’t offer any defence of his actions by explaining what it was. It only made York more curious to know the truth.

“She wanted to buy your paintings…?” Olivia asked, stepping out from behind Nick. “You never told me that.” Nick scoffed at her.

“You never believed anything I told you about it, Olivia, did you? Eventually I just stopped bothering,” he said. Olivia drew in a sharp breath, pressing her fingers to her temples and shaking her head.

“That’s why… that’s why I didn’t believe you! Because you were always lying!” she sighed. “You would claim to be going to have a drink with Diane at the bar, but you would go off with her somewhere else without telling me! And you were always out later than you said you’d be! How was I meant to trust you when you kept lying!”

“You really want to bring that up now, Olivia?” Nick said coldly, leaning his face close to hers. “You think I’m the bad one in this relationship? What about –” But he stopped when he remembered York was still with them. Unfortunately, York thought. He had been about to say something big.

“Please, continue,” York asked. Both of them turned to look at him. Olivia wore a weary frown and Nick’s glower reminded York of one of George’s expressions.

“Get out of my diner,” Nick said plainly. “Now.”

“Olivia, surely you don’t approve of what Nick is doing?” York said, changing direction. Olivia’s eyes widened in fear. “Following Diane, another woman, around. If you were to have some kind of strong negative reaction to that, I think it would be understandable.”

“What?” Olivia asked numbly. “What do you mean?”

“If you wanted to get back at Diane for the tension she was causing between you and your husband…” York said matter-of-factly, “that would be perfectly understandable. I’m sure there would be a way of hurting Diane for what she’d done. Possibly, I suppose, by going after her sister.”

“Her sister?” Olivia squeaked.

“Yes,” York said, smiling. “Poor Becky Ames has really had a hard time lately. Her boyfriend died, as well as one of her old school friends. She must be struggling. I’m sure you don’t know much about her life, as she is, after all, just a teenager that you have no connection to. Well, apart from having had her best friend working here. Isn’t Anna a sweet girl? She does love to talk about her life, doesn’t she? I’m sure she mentions Becky constantly. I just mean, Olivia,” he paused and lowered his voice. “Diane is a very cold and unshakable woman. If someone wanted to hurt her, I think going through Becky would be the way to do it.”

“How dare you!” Nick shouted. “You don’t even believe that, do you? You’re just trying to threaten me and my wife, get out, get _out_!”

“I think it would be perfectly understandable,” York said again. “After everything Diane’s done to you, Olivia.”

“You…” Olivia stammered. Then, in an instant, a fire rose inside her. “You have no idea at all!” she screamed, balling her hands into fists. Nick and York were both forced to step back. “You don’t know a thing about her, about us, about me! Our lives aren’t some loose thread for you to unpick while you ignore the real problems here in town! Why don’t you leave me _alone_! Stop harassing me and my husband, stop checking up on us! Just stop! Go and find your murderer, Agent York, and stop invading my life. Leave me alone! I haven’t done anything wrong! I… I haven’t… done anything wrong.” When she was finished, she slumped, catching her breath. The rare burst of anger had tired her out, and no wonder. York wouldn’t have imagined she was capable of it. Nick had been right in his assessment. York didn’t really believe what he had said, he was merely trying to see what secrets he could shake loose by prodding Olivia. He would not have expected this reaction under any circumstances. Maybe he really had misread her.

“You really need to leave, this second,” Nick said, wrapping his arms around Olivia and holding her while she went limp. Her head was buried in her husband’s shoulder and it was apparent she wouldn’t be saying anything else for a while.

“Fine. I agree,” York said. He turned to leave, feeling uncomfortable with what he’d seen. The other diner patrons all stared up at him as he walked past, and he realised that they would have heard Olivia’s outburst. Who knows how much else. Thankfully, there were no familiar faces in the mix. York felt tired. He had seen something raw and personal, something Olivia had been holding back, a secret side she had never wanted him to see. He’d cornered her. The worst part though, was that it wasn’t over. She was still holding back secrets, and if there was even a chance they were related to the case, he would have to find them out.

York shut his eyes. In the darkness of his head, he saw Olivia, lying flat and dead on a table, as he tore and pulled at her insides. Exposing the meat and sewage inside of her. As he stood, watching himself tearing at her, something ripped and suddenly there was a wave of inky darkness that bubbled out of her, washing across the table, over him, over everything. Soon, it was all covered. York had to take a moment to ground himself, clutching at his own arms and pulling himself back to reality. He had liked Olivia. When he’d met her, he’d thought she was a good, kind woman. He still wanted to believe that. He didn’t want to one day see this, that evil, spill out of her. Nick had said, that day outside the art gallery, that there was a darkness in her. York hoped it was benign.

“Like our darkness, Zach,” he breathed. He realised he was standing in the parking lot, his hand on the door of the police cruiser. “In some people, it’s a cancer that picks away at you, until everything good has been eaten up to feed it. But some people. Some people manage.” He shuddered, and forced himself to breathe. “Let’s go and see Thomas, Zach. That’ll be better. It’s better than this.”


	34. Connection

Chapter Thirty-Four. [ Connection ]

York parked his car outside Thomas’ apartment block and looked up. He could see what was presumably Carol’s empty flat next door, with the curtains drawn. He wondered if Thomas had been through it yet. For some people it made it easier, being around their lost loved one’s things, but for some it was just a reminder of what was gone. Considering Thomas’ fondness for denial, he suspected he had only gone in briefly to close the curtains and then left. The apartment may as well be boarded up and forgotten. Unless someone pushed him, Thomas was unlikely to ever want to look at it again.

York walked up the metal stairs towards Thomas’ door. He found himself wondering if George had ever done the same. Whether or not their meetings were reserved for after hours at the Galaxy of Terror.

“Ah, the Galaxy of Terror, Carol’s pet project,” York muttered. “Do you think Thomas will reopen it eventually? He’ll need to find a partner if he does. I can’t imagine him running it by himself. And they’ll need an act, of course. Who do you think the new singer could be, Zach? I don’t think we’ve met another aspiring chanteuse in Greenvale.”

He reached Thomas’ door and was about to knock when he realised it was open. Someone had left it unlocked. He felt uneasy. He couldn’t imagine Thomas was entertaining many friends in his current state, and he’d had no reason to leave the apartment since returning to it. Surely he would have kept the door locked, especially after what happened to Carol?

“We’re not taking any risks when it comes to Thomas, Zach,” York muttered. He patted his holster to make sure he was prepared for the very worst scenario, then shoved the door open and rushed into the apartment. Thankfully, it was immediately obvious that Thomas wasn’t hurt.

York gaped. Thomas was standing in the middle of the living room, moving idly to the music pouring out of an old record player, wrapped in the arms of someone York really hadn’t been expecting to see today. They both noticed him almost as soon as he entered the room, and Thomas broke apart from his paramour like he’d been electrocuted.

“Agent York!” Thomas shrieked. “You! I… You shouldn’t be here! It’s not what you think!”

There was no way to pretend it wasn’t exactly what York thought. The way they had been holding each other when he came in made it perfectly obvious that there was a romantic connection between Thomas, and Ushah.

“York, you have to stop and listen for a minute,” Ushah said urgently. He was bargaining. York couldn’t see why. He was surprised by this development, yes, but mostly just because he hadn’t expected Thomas to have been seeing anyone other than George. Suddenly, that telephone call made sense. Ushah was the other ‘friend’ Thomas had been hiding.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” York assured them, waving his hands. As soon as the initial shock faded away, he began to feel awkward for barging in. “I was only worried you might be hurt, Thomas,” he added.

“I thought the door was locked,” Thomas said sheepishly. “I… Oh, my goodness.” He went and sat down on the edge of the sofa and put his head in his hands. Ushah remained standing, looking nervously at York and unsure of what to say next.

“I won’t mention this to anyone,” York promised, looking back at Ushah. There was no point saying it to Thomas, he had checked out. “I’m just glad Thomas has someone looking after him.”

“Well, yes, so am I,” Ushah agreed stiffly. “I… I care for Thomas, but listen to me, York. This can’t get out. I can’t have this news get out.”

“Who would I tell, Ushah? It’s not as if I’m part of the local rumour mill,” York said, smiling, but Ushah’s face remained clouded over and grim.

“You don’t understand,” Ushah said. “This is a small town, York. People will talk, and everyone will know, and things will be harder for me. I just want to do my job, you know? I don’t want there to be any… adverse effects on it, just because of…” He glanced back towards Thomas. It took York a moment to catch up.

“Because you’re both men?” York asked. “All right, I understand. Things out here aren’t like the city. You’re in a very visible position with your job, and… well, yes. I understand.” He liked to think, of the people he’d met in Greenvale, that none of them would actually attack the local doctor just because he was involved with another man. But he hadn’t met everyone, and you never knew. He could appreciate Ushah’s scepticism.

“Thank you,” Ushah said, slowly warming back up. After the shock of discovery, it would still be a while before he returned to his usual friendly self.

“I promise that, unless it matters to the investigation in some way, your secret is safe with me,” York promised, smiling calmly back at them. Ushah stiffened and his hands twitched.

“Yeah… let’s hope it doesn’t, then,” he muttered.

“I’m sure it won’t,” York agreed. Ushah turned and walked off to the fridge to get something to drink. Realising the conversation was over, Thomas withdrew from his hands and stared up at York with his wide, anxious eyes.

“York?” he said in a squeak of a voice. “You’re not going to… tell anyone?”

“I didn’t tell anyone about you and George,” York countered. “Aside from Emily. And she had to know, for the case. Otherwise, it’s our secret.” There was the sound of something slamming and they both turned to see Ushah with his hand on the fridge door. He looked away from them and went to sit down across the room.

“York…” Thomas said meekly. “Could we go for a drive?”

♦ ♦ ♦

A few minutes later, and York was driving down the road, with Thomas in the passenger seat staring out of the window. He hadn’t said anything yet, and York was waiting for him to speak first. It took a little while, but he got there in the end.

“You’re being very kind, York,” Thomas said in a small voice. “I’m not used to that.”

“Thomas, you’re my friend,” York assured him. “And I want you to be happy. Honestly, while the circumstances of me finding out weren’t ideal, this is good news. I’m pleased.”

“Why?” Thomas asked, turning to look at him with confusion in his face.

“Why?” York repeated. “Because you need someone to look after you, Thomas. Some people do. After…” he paused tactfully, “…everything, I think you deserve it. I assume Ushah treats you well. I like him, personally, he seems like he has his heart in the right place.”

“Yes…” Thomas said quietly, staring down at his feet. He hesitated for a while before he could carry on. “It’s been strange. There have been, well, there were some moments between us for a while, but I mostly ignored it, and I’m sure he did too. Ushah is married to his work, and because of that things couldn’t be public between us. I don’t mind! I feel the same. George…” Thomas bit his lip nervously. “George wouldn’t be happy. He wouldn’t allow it.”

“I see,” York said, his disapproval tangible and suffocating in the small space inside the car. Thomas shrank back into his seat. “Thomas,” York said, gentler, “I think that might be exactly why you needed to do this. You have to get away from George. Ushah feels the same way, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Thomas sighed. “Before, he didn’t bring it up, but that day we kissed… oh! Um.” He looked over at York quickly, then back down at the car floor, cheeks pink. “That was only about a week ago, but it feels like it happened a year ago now. That day you drove me to the hospital to get the paperwork signed for… Quint’s paperwork. He kissed me. I suppose I should have seen it coming, and, well… at first, I wasn’t sure. Then… after…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, but York suspected he was trying to say ‘after Carol died’.

“After that, yes,” York finished for him. Thomas thankfully carried on, happy to skip that particular admission.

“After that I was on my own, really,” he said sadly. “I know you don’t agree, but… I think George is responsible for what happened to Carol. Maybe he didn’t kill her, but it’s his fault she… it’s his fault. I want you to understand that, please, York.” He was very sincere. His words seemed to come from a deep, hollow place inside of him and York did not want to disagree in the face of such emotion.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” Thomas said, in a way that made it clear his appreciation ran deep. He was no longer staring down at the floor, but had his sorrowful grey eyes fixed on York as he spoke. York was tempted to look back into them, feeling the pull, but settled for the occasional glance as he tried to focus on the road. “I can’t bear to even look at George now, after what he’s done,” Thomas added. “Ushah and I… well, things are different. I hate how it happened, but he says it’s for the best. I suppose you think the same.”

“Thomas, I wanted you to get away from George at almost any cost,” York said seriously. “But I don’t think it was worth someone dying over.”

“Oh,” Thomas breathed, the small word catching in his throat. “No… it’s not worth it. Ushah told me that I have to find the silver lining on a bad situation.” York looked over at Thomas to try and work out the context of his revelation. It was hard to tell.

“The silver lining?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “He thinks Carol was, well… he thought she was keeping me with George, I suppose. I mean, sort of. I’m not sure.” York waited for him to keep talking. This was why they had had to go for a drive, he realised. Thomas had some doubt biting at him that he needed to share with a neutral party.

“Go on,” York said.

“Oh, well,” Thomas continued. “He didn’t like… everything that happened with George. He was right! I do know that, now. Even if he pestered me about it then, it makes sense now. I told him none of it was Carol’s fault, but he seemed to think that she was part of why I, well… stayed.” Thomas clutched protectively at his arms, hanging his head.

“Don’t feel guilty, Thomas, none of this was your fault,” York said gently. “I’m just glad you’ve got out now. That’s what matters.” It seemed to reassure Thomas, as he looked up with a momentary smile before getting back to his concerns.

“It is, it is…” he mumbled. “I’ll stay away from him now. I can’t go back, not after losing her. It’s his fault. It’s all George’s fault, I know it is…” He cleared his throat, arms twitching, trying not to focus on the wrong thing. “Ushah. He was worried for me, he wanted me to get away from George, the same as you did. You were both right. I just wish he wouldn’t blame Carol. Especially now. She didn’t… she didn’t do anything wrong. She was a good person, she was always… she was just like me, really.” Thomas wiped at his eyes, and York realised he was crying. The soft, soundless crying someone does when they don’t want to draw attention to their pain. When it just overwhelms them.

“I know she was, Thomas,” York agreed. He didn’t comment on Thomas’ tears. If he tried to help, it would only make his friend feel self-conscious. The best thing to do was to agree, to listen. “I didn’t know her well. I get the impression Carol didn’t want anyone to know her very well. I do realise what she was, though. She was a victim. Not just of her murderer, but in life, in general. She wouldn’t thank me for saying that, I’m sure, but it happens to be true. What George did to Carol was an abuse of trust, and I wish I could have helped her when she was alive.” York stopped. He thought for a moment. “I think I failed her,” he added. “I should have done more to help her.”

“You… she never would have let you,” Thomas said, his voice shaking as he wiped desperately at his face, glasses pushed up his forehead. “She never let anyone help her. She should have let me.”

“She should have, but we can’t blame her for that now,” York said. Thomas’ sadness was infectious. He felt a weight settle in his own chest. Carol MacLaine had been twenty years old, and for all her anger and her vicious refusal to listen to anyone, she deserved to be rescued. He was in the business of protecting people, and he’d failed to help her. At least when Quint had died, he’d never heard of Greenvale or the people who lived there. Carol had been killed right under his nose.

“No…” Thomas said sadly. “I hope Ushah will understand. I want him to understand. Carol didn’t do anything wrong, it wasn’t her fault that George was able to… um, everything.” He sighed wistfully to himself. “I would have liked them to be friends,” he said. “Ushah and Carol, that is. I think that would have been nice. I would have liked it if we were friends, all of us. If we got away.”

“I know, I understand,” York agreed.

“He’s better about everything else,” Thomas mumbled. “All the other things… he understands that much better. I didn’t think he would.” York glanced over.

“What other things, Thomas?” York asked. He didn’t answer.

“Nothing,” Thomas said listlessly. “It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter. Can we go back now?” York pulled a sharp turn and Thomas let out a tiny scream. “York!” he shouted. “You drive… it’s dangerous!”

“Sorry,” York said, almost smiling. “I’m used to driving in the city, where everyone in every car is trying to kill everyone else.” It was a poor excuse, but he would be the first to admit that.

“Gosh!” Thomas gasped. He took a moment to recover his breath. When he did, his next words came out in something close to a whisper. “Who killed my sister, York?” he asked.

“Thomas…” York said uncertainly. “I don’t know. I will find out. But I don’t know yet.”

“I want them to suffer…” Thomas mumbled. “When you find them. I just want them to suffer for hurting her.” York looked at Thomas and back at the road. He felt his stomach twist into a knot. Thomas was such a sweet man, really. He had a genuinely good heart. He was gentle, kind, everything he should be. And now, there were pieces of glass sitting in his heart, choking in his chest, ruining him. York hoped that when he found the killer, he was able to pull some of those pieces out. Stitch Thomas back together. He knew that, even if he could, he’d never get them all out. Some things just would not go back to the way they used to be. Thomas would never really be soft again.

York almost couldn’t bear to realise that.


	35. Ghosts

Chapter Thirty-Five. [ Ghosts ]

After dropping Thomas off at home, as York was driving back through town, he caught sight of Lilly and the rest of the Ingrams outside the bank. He decided to stop and say hello. Lilly saw him as he got out of the car and gave him a wave and a smile. York smiled back at her. Keith was behind her, kneeling down and talking with his twins. It was only after he had started to walk over that York noticed Forrest Kaysen was with them. His Dalmatian was sitting on the ground looking at Isaach and Isaiah and occasionally remembering to wag its tail.

“Willie, leave them be,” Forrest said, talking to the dog. It looked up at him briefly then continued to watch over the two children. “Hey York!” Forrest said suddenly, waving cheerfully. York hesitated before stiffly waving back.

“How are you, hon?” Lilly asked when he reached her. “Managing everything okay?”

“Yes, thank you, Lilly,” York said. “Actually, I saw Becky earlier. She seems to be doing better.”

“That’s right!” Lilly said brightly. “Oh, I’m so glad to see it. I was really very worried about her. Now, don’t tell anyone, but ever since she came to work for us, after that tragedy with her parents, I’ve tried to look after her. Sort of like a mother might. I’m not doing much, I suppose, but I just like to look out for her. Becky’s such a sweet girl, so sensitive.” Lilly shook her head, but she kept a smile on her face. York supposed that with Becky back at work, Lilly was comfortable in the belief that she was going to be all right.

“I can see that,” York agreed. He remembered what had happened at the end of his visit to see Becky at Anna’s house that morning. “Lilly, do you think Becky might find a new boyfriend soon? Someone to help her move on?”

“Well if she does, I wouldn’t know who!” Lilly laughed. “I suppose she can’t mourn forever, but I’ve honestly never seen her speak to a boy outside of Quint. He was her one and only, poor thing. They were really very much in love. You don’t usually see that with teenagers.” Lilly giggled. “If I had found love at that age, my life would be very different! Not that there weren’t a few possible candidates in high school, mind you, hon, but at that age I don’t think most girls are looking for something serious.”

“No?” York asked. He wouldn’t know. He remembered one of the girls from his high school, popular and pretty with a drawn on mole above her lip, who had seemed to go through boyfriends like tissues, but he had rarely spoken to her. He may have just been misinterpreting her, reading the back cover without opening the book. There was no way to know now.

“Yes, that’s right,” Lilly laughed. “If my father knew what I’d got up to as a teenager, I’d probably still be grounded today.” She gave him a wink and York laughed awkwardly, refusing to think about what she meant. It didn’t stop his cheeks from turning pink, however. “But Becky’s not like that,” Lilly went on. “She never has been. She and Quint were made for each other. Everyone who knew them was sure they’d end up getting married.”

“It’s a shame they’ll never get that, then,” York said. Lilly sighed, nodding, but remained almost as cheerful as before.

“It is, hon,” she agreed. “It would have been lovely to see her get married. I’m sure half the town would have gone to see it. Richard would have been so proud of Quint, and I’m sure Anna would have made a beautiful bridesmaid. It would just be nice to see Becky happy, she deserves it. I’m sure she will be, someday, but it’ll take her a long time to get over Quint.”

“No new boyfriends on the horizon then, in your opinion?” York asked.

“Oh no, no, I wouldn’t think so,” Lilly said. “Not yet.” Just then, Keith popped up to join them, a lazy, warm grin on his face.

“Hey brah,” he said, nodding at York. “You and the missus talking about someone getting hitched?”

“Essentially,” York said. “We were talking about Becky and Quint, and what their plans might have been had things not gone the way they did.” He remembered his promise not to mention murder in front of Lilly’s children, and she seemed to appreciate his vague phrasing.

“Yeah, mega downer for Becky there,” Keith agreed. “I would have wanted to wish them well, you know? They were like… cute kids, really in love. I’ve never seen anyone so happy, not until I met the love of my life, anyway.” He finished by grinning at his wife and Lilly giggled as the two of them moved into a kiss. York thought to himself that Keith was getting things the wrong way round. He wouldn’t have met Becky until after he met Lilly. Still, he felt that for Keith, these sort of things didn’t really matter. Life was a melting pot of different colours and sounds, and the order didn’t come into play. The Ingrams, apparently forgetting that they were in public, not to mention the presence of their two children, a friend, and an FBI agent, continued to lock faces. York stepped past the four-armed mass that was Keith and Lilly, and towards Kaysen.

“Well hey, York!” Forrest exclaimed in his usual, overly friendly manner. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since the day that, well…” He looked pointedly at the two boys who, York realised, had stopped playing and were smiling up at him. “Since Carol had to leave town.”

“Carol’s in the forest!” Isaach called out. York stared, surprised.

“What was that?” York asked. Both of the twins looked up at him eagerly.

“She’s in the forest!” Isaach said again.

“Yeah, she’s a goddess of the forest! That’s why she had to leave town, to go back there!” Isaiah agreed. York was taken aback. It seemed the Ingrams children knew something about Carol’s death after all. Even if their facts were not quite in line with the truth.

“What do you mean, a goddess of the forest?” York asked.

“Don’t be silly!” Isaach laughed. “Can’t you see her?”

“She’s there at night, in the woods!” Isaiah agreed. “And Quint. He had to go with her.”

“Carol and Quint were friends,” Isaach said. “Now they’re both in the forest!”

“You’re saying you’ve seen Carol in the forest at night?” York asked. The two boys giggled together and shrugged. A second later, they were distracted by the barking of Forrest’s dog and began playing, apparently done with questions.

“Oh, they say all kinds of stuff like that, Forrest laughed. “They’re just kids. I guess they think that’s what happened with Carol, that she’s some kind of…” He held up his fingers to air quote. “‘Forest goddess!’ Well hell, I don’t know about that. Not much of an angel, was she? More towards the southern end of that picture.” He laughed to himself, at his own joke. York felt uncomfortable. Carol was not long dead, and implying she was a bad person while her brother was still very much in mourning over her loss felt callous. Forrest didn’t seem to care. He acted as if they’d just been talking about what they were eating for dinner.

“Is everything all right?” York turned to see that Lilly had broken away from her husband and was standing next to him.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he said. “I was just talking with your sons about Carol. Or rather, they were telling me about her being a goddess of the forest. Have they said anything about that to you?” Lilly frowned momentarily before settling back into her usual warm, neutral expression.

“They did?” she asked. “Well, yes, they’ve said things like that before. I don’t know exactly what they mean by it, I suppose they think she’s gone to live in the woods.”

“She has, mom!” Isaach chirped in. “She’s a goddess!”

“She is, she is!” Isaiah added. After reaffirming their stance on Carol, they went back to chasing the dog around.

“There you go,” Lilly laughed. “Well, we told them Carol had to go away, the same as Quint. I suppose that’s where she’s gone.”

“I suppose it is,” York agreed slowly. It was still an unusual thing to say. He had his doubts that they had come up with it all by themselves.

“They have very active imaginations,” Lilly said. “I do worry, but well, they seem so happy all the time! I don’t think it does any harm, do you?”

“No, I don’t suppose it does,” York said, though he wasn’t convinced. Lilly went on talking, perfectly happy despite the fact that they were dancing around the topic of two young murder victims. She was hard to phase, York thought. Being a mother must help with that.

“What was the other one they kept talking about?” she wondered aloud. “Keith?”

“Yeah, Lilly?” he asked, joining them. “What’s up?”

“Keith, what was that other story the boys were talking about a while ago?” she asked him. “The one about that man.”

“Oh, yeah, right!” Keith said, grinning. “They told me this awesome story about a ghost hanging out in the graveyard at night. They kept talking about it! I wish I could have seen it too, I mean a ghost! Isn’t that super fu– uh, cool?”

“Keith, you told me about that,” York said, aghast. “You told me that people had seen a ghost in the graveyard, in the shack there.”

“Yeah, man, I know!” Keith laughed. “My juniors are people, right? And they told me that story. Man, I wish I could meet a ghost. Everyone sees them but me, that’s totally unfair!”

“Yes, it’s unfair,” York sighed. He had hoped the source for Keith’s supposed ghost sighting was more legitimate than two children with active imaginations, although he supposed it was quite sweet for Keith to quote his sons’ stories as if they were a reliable account. This did leave him back at square one when it came to Brian, however. He’d wanted to believe that other people had seen the strange man, but he couldn’t completely bring himself to trust an urban legend that originated during bedtime at the Ingram house.

“Funny, aren’t they?” Forrest added. “Ghosts this, and goddesses that. Why, if I was seeing things like that at their age, I don’t know if I’d be so calm!”

“Yeah, man, me either!” Keith laughed.

“It’s like that movie, The Sixth Sense,” York said. “That got under my skin when I saw it for the first time. That poor boy. No-one believed him.”

“Well, I don’t think most parents would, hon,” Lilly said gently. “Children just have active imaginations. They see lots of things that aren’t real, and have imaginary friends. That’s childhood!”

“Yes…” York said, uncertainly. He felt cold suddenly, and shivery. Lilly’s comment put him on edge. He shouldn’t have brought up the movie, and he wished Lilly hadn’t mentioned imaginary friends. There was no reason for them to be talking about this. It was day, it was a nice day. There was no reason for this to hurt him. “I should probably go,” he said abruptly. “I have… I need to do things.”

“All right, hon, it was nice to see you,” Lilly said, giving him a quick pat on the arm. “Good luck with everything.”

“Yeah, see ya!” Keith said, giving him a smile. “Tell me if you see any more ghosts, will you?”

“Uh, yes, of course, Keith,” York mumbled. He wanted this topic to die.

“Willie!” Forrest shouted after his dog. “Come back, don’t lead the boys so far off!” Apparently York would not be getting a goodbye from him, and he was happy enough with that. Forrest still unsettled him. He didn’t seem to be in tune with other people’s feelings. Maybe he was just oblivious, but York couldn’t help but wonder if, underneath his friendly exterior, there was something of a mean spirit.

“Goodbye then,” York said generally, and returned to his car, the vague sound of children’s laughter carrying after him in the air. As he climbed in, he sighed to himself. “We have to try harder, Zach,” he muttered. “We’re adults, aren’t we?” He looked back after the Ingrams, who were all wandering away as a happy group. “Children are allowed to have imaginary friends. To see things, to pretend to see things. It’s not about us. We’re not… we were never like that. We’re different.”

He wondered where to go next. There were still a lot of questions gnawing at him, and it had already been a long day. Becky, Diane, Thomas, Ushah… Olivia. Everyone had something going on under the surface. Everyone had secrets. Even the two six-year-olds were involved in something they shouldn’t be. Greenvale was a hell of a place. In the end, he decided to go back to the sheriff’s department and see if he could catch Emily. It would be hard not to tell her about Thomas, but he had promised. He wouldn’t break Thomas’ trust, even if he knew Emily would never hurt him. Emily was a good person, one of the best he’d known for a long time. Going to see her would help everything to make sense again.

♦ ♦ ♦

“I was just going to get something to eat, actually,” Emily told him. York had run into her just as she was leaving the department. He had hoped they’d have a chance to talk, but she seemed to be thinking with her stomach. “I’m glad Richard’s keeping his bar open,” she went on. “Imagine if he closed down and the Galaxy of Terror closed as well? There’d be nothing to do in town after six.”

“You’re right, Emily,” York agreed. “I hope Thomas manages to do something with it, when he feels better.” Emily nodded. “I spoke to him today. He’s… beginning to move on.” That was vague enough, York thought.

“Good,” Emily said, smiling. “I’ve really been worried. Thomas is so sensitive, but, well, if you say he’s feeling better, that’s good news. I wasn’t sure he’d recover at first.”

“Neither was I,” York said. “I think he just needed some support.”

“You’re being a good friend to him, and I appreciate that, thank you,” Emily said. Really, York had been thinking of Ushah, but he supposed he was also doing his part. It was a group effort. “Anyway,” Emily carried on. “I should get moving. I’m hungry. It turns out what I tried to make for lunch wasn’t entirely edible. I thought the eggs were still good. Maybe I just didn’t cook them for long enough.”

“Uh. Okay.” York didn’t want to know what crime Emily had committed in the station kitchen. If he didn’t know, he couldn’t become an accessory to it. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, Emily.” Although he tried vaguely to will her into inviting him along for the evening, his efforts were in vain. She wasn’t much of a mind-reader.

“See you, York!” Emily said, waving lightly and making her way towards the parking lot behind the station. York watched her go sadly, wishing they didn’t have to part ways so soon. Last night, when they’d eaten together, had been his favourite meal for a very long time. And he did like to eat, so that was quite an achievement. He was pulled out of his reverie a moment later by a loud grunt.

“Agent York,” George said, having just appeared through the front doors of the sheriff’s department. “What are you doing here? You’ve been gone all day, taking care of your own business.”

“I know that, George,” York said, remembering to be careful around the sheriff a moment after he’d already come back at him. “I was just checking in with Emily,” he quickly added, almost apologetically.

“She’s still helping you with the case,” George grunted. “You’ve got to get this thing solved soon. It’s tearing people apart, knowing there’s a killer out there, after their kids.”

“I’ve seen that, yes,” York admitted, thinking of Sallie Graham’s behaviour. He could imagine that the other parents in town had similar thoughts running through their heads. George folded his arms and cocked his head at York, his expression too neutral for York to read. Perhaps it was not so neutral as it was conflicted, he thought a second later. A mixture of multiple emotions at once.

“Agent York,” George said gruffly. “I’ve had a long, dull day of paperwork. I don’t suppose you’d want to get a drink? Our last one was… it was good to talk things through with another man.” Now York was the conflicted one. Although the last evening with George had been interesting, enlightening, certainly, it had also frightened him on a primal level. George’s anger and the violence, both in his past and his present, were disturbing.

“All right,” York eventually agreed. “I think Emily was going to the Swery 65 herself.”

“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” George said at once. “I don’t want to put her out. That’s her evening plan, it doesn’t involve us. We’ll go somewhere else.”

“While I agree with you, George,” York said. “I’m not sure anywhere else will be open.” George tapped his pocket idly, and turned to begin walking towards his car, expecting York to follow.

“We’ll go to the Galaxy of Terror,” he said.

“But it won’t be open, not with Carol dead,” York protested lightly. He found he was following George after all. He found it strange that George would have completely forgotten the limited circumstances they found themselves in.

“I have a key,” George said firmly. “We’re going there.” York didn’t argue back. He couldn’t imagine this was going to be a particularly enjoyable evening. Just him and the sheriff, locked inside the murder victim’s empty bar. Not exactly a breeding ground for a good time. He didn’t protest when George climbed into the driver’s seat of his own over-sized car, waiting for York to get into the passenger’s side, even though he felt there was a good chance he would be walking home after their evening out.

When they arrived, York stared at the Galaxy of Terror from the car window. It was dark, silent. He was reminded of Carol herself, lying in the morgue. She and her bar were both waiting, he supposed, waiting for someone to figure out what happened next. And until then, they’d stay like this. Cold. Silent. Dead.

“Hurry up,” George snapped. York realised he had already got out of the car, so did the same, following George over to the door. George took the key from his pocket and opened the door. It was pitch black inside, and there was a dull, sweet smell of spilled alcohol that had been brewing in the air for a few days. It felt unclean. George sat down at the bar and helped himself to a bottle of whiskey from under the counter. York turned on the lights. George hadn’t even bothered.

“It feels different without her,” York said softly. He went to sit down next to George and even without touching him, he could tell that the other man was tense.

“Of course it does, she was everything to this place,” George grunted. Frustration was pulsing through him, obvious on his face and hissing at the bottom of his voice. York would have to be careful. “You think it’ll ever open up again? Don’t be stupid. Not like it was. Change the name, maybe, they’ll have to. Something generic and friendly. Easy-going. Galaxy of Terror is a hard name to market. It only worked because she was the face behind it.”

“I think you’re right,” York agreed. He couldn’t really picture anyone else running the place like Carol had. It still felt more like a fantasy world. The kind of bar you visit in a dream, or in an old noir movie, but never in real life. That was before, of course. Without Carol’s voice hanging heavy in the air like red taffeta and the sting of cigarette smoke and idle conversation, it was just an empty room. It felt depressing to be here after hours. George didn’t feel the need to get himself a glass, he tore the pourer out of the bottle and drank a shot straight, coughing. That really pulled the image together. They were just lonely men in an empty bar.

“She’ll haunt this place forever,” George muttered. York nodded slowly. He looked over at the stage, at the untended piano and the misaligned microphone. Carol was there. He could see her, sitting on the keys, no weight to her body and no sound coming from it. She breathed smoke and ash into the air and stared back at him. Their eyes fixed on each other. Carol stood up, drifting to the front of her stage. She smiled cruelly at her miserable audience, then collapsed into a pillar of red velvet, vanished. Just a ghost.

“I’m glad ghosts aren’t real,” York breathed.

“You and me both, Agent York,” George grunted. “God help me, but if someone dies, that should be it. I don’t want to imagine them coming back for me. They should rest in peace.”

“It’s hard to let people go,” York said. “But it’s better that we do.” George nodded, his hat tipped forward over his eyes. York took the bottle from him and, after a moment of checking with himself that he was actually being serious, took a swig. It was far too strong, and he was tempted to spit the whiskey back over the bar top, but he swallowed it down.

“Impressive,” George muttered. York felt he’d completed one of those rare masculine bonding rituals he so often failed. It was hard to compete when you didn’t understand the game. “Thomas hates that kind of stuff,” George added sourly. “Can’t handle it.”

“I see,” York said, remaining non-committal. He wasn’t surprised, but he didn’t see a problem with it. When it came to male rituals, Thomas wasn’t the sort to even compete. York thought he was probably better for it. He shouldn’t try to fight who he was.

“Have you seen him?” George asked. “He won’t come into work. Fucking baby has lots of holiday saved up, he can stay off as long as he wants. I can’t do a thing about it. He never misses work, never takes a day off, so he can put his feet up while the real officers solve his sister’s murder for him.” Again, York found it hard to blame Thomas for that. They would only have to keep Thomas away from the case files if he did come into work, because of the massive conflict of interest. George’s anger wasn’t about that, though, and York knew it. He just wanted Thomas where he could see him.

“I saw him today,” York said, after a minute. George helped himself to another drink. The second one went down easier.

“He was good, was he? Happy to be entertaining guests?” George sneered. York had to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a little laugh. He shouldn’t, it wasn’t actually funny. It was just that George didn’t realise how right he was. Thankfully, as it turned out. If George knew Thomas had started seeing Ushah, he felt that the sheriff might do something more dangerous than just protest.

“He’s not perfect yet, but he’s getting somewhere,” York said carefully. Hoping it was enough of an answer to satisfy George.

“He better get over it soon,” George scoffed. “You think I wanted Carol to die? But look at me, being an adult about it. She’s gone, we just have to find the bastard who killed her and it’ll be over. Sorry, Agent Morgan, _you_ have to find the bastard. I forgot I wasn’t helpful to you.” He smirked to himself, apparently pleased with the comment. York couldn’t help but think there was a difference between being an adult about bad circumstances, and being cold. How much George actually missed Carol, and how much he just missed the way she acted for him, remained to be seen.

“He will,” York said eventually. “And we will.”

“Last time anyone was in here, it was her,” George muttered. “Up on that stage in that pretty little outfit she always wore. Tight red dress with pink feathers around her neck. She looked good, right? You saw her.”

“I… maybe,” York mumbled, not wanting to answer. George laughed bitterly to himself, a tiny shifting noise that made York twitch.

“She was pretty, all right,” he said. “There’s a lot of pretty women in Greenvale, when you think about it. Carol wasn’t the best of them, but she was something. She was sure something.” York said nothing, growing steadily more unhappy as George talked. Whether it was the alcohol or just some feeling that it was all over anyway, he didn’t seem to care much about concealing his relationship with Carol anymore. Maybe he knew that York knew. It was possible Thomas had let something slip, or just that George had picked up on it. He was a police officer himself, after all. He could well have realised that York was in on his dirty secret.

“Who else?” George asked aloud, but the question was aimed at himself, not York. It was just as well, because York wasn’t going to be dragged into this debate. “Emily…” George said wistfully. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s the best thing in Greenvale, and she ain’t even from here. Funny thing, isn’t it. Isn’t it just.” York sat in cold silence and hoped George would stop talking about Emily before he felt a need to defend her. He wasn’t sure he could take George in a fistfight, but he’d be willing to try. “Diane as well,” George went on. “Now, Diane, she’s something different. She’s beautiful, sure, but there’s nothing good behind it. She’s all outsides. I bet if you cut her open, nothing’d spill out but Styrofoam and paint.”

“Perhaps,” York said. He was surprised. He never thought anyone could make him want to defend Diane Ames, and yet here he was. Even he knew there was more to Diane than just a well-painted face and a fake smile. There was more nuance in the lingering smell of her perfume than some people managed in the sum of their personalities.

“Diane and I get together sometimes,” George admitted. Bragged, sort of, York thought. This didn’t surprise him after the way they’d been whispering to each other at the sheriff’s department. He’d already assumed as much. “Or we used to, anyway. She’s gone off it lately. Found something else probably. She’s a flighty woman, and not my taste really.” Another reason for him to be bitter, it seemed, York thought.

“Nick Cormack?” he suggested.

“Maybe, but I doubt that,” George grunted. “They’ve been friends a while and I don’t sense there’s much between them. Just a love of art, she says. I don’t get it. Waste of time.” It was an interesting perspective to have, and York was beginning to wonder if it was the right one. The more he dug into it, the less it seemed like Nick and Diane were romantically involved. Which just made their fighting all the stranger.

“There’s something there…” York muttered. George scoffed at him.

“You think Diane’s bad?” he sneered. “Welcome to reality, everyone knows she’s bad. But not in any way you’d care about. You ever use that head of yours for anything other than thinking about people killing other people?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” York said. He felt the need to be defensive, even if he wasn’t totally sure what he was being made fun of for.

“No, I bet you don’t,” George laughed gruffly to himself. He drank again from the bottle, and York noticed it had gone down a long way from where it started. “Must be something in the family,” George said suddenly, as if they hadn’t had their interlude. “Becky Ames, she’s good too. Their mother was pretty, as far as I remember, but never did much, stayed inside most of the time. Becky looks like her, though. Diane takes after the father. Think he had that red hair.”

“All right,” York said. He wanted to stop the conversation, but he wasn’t sure how. Sitting here in Carol’s empty bar, listening to George dissect the various women in his life made him feel like he was a party to something dark and wrong. Which, he supposed, was true. It was wrong. This whole conversation was rotten.

“Becky and Carol,” George muttered. “Both pretty, pretty girls. But Becky never seemed to know it, and I think that makes them prettier, don’t you? Something gentle about that. Becky’s like a fawn or something, some wild animal that doesn’t realise what it is, doesn’t know its own nature. Doesn’t realise it’s got the right to be wild.”

“Right, I see,” York said. He felt a sickness in his throat, and considered getting up to leave. He would, if he didn’t think there was something useful in what George was telling him. He remembered what Thomas had said. That even though he hadn’t murdered Carol, he had led her down the path to her death. That, York thought, seemed truer and truer.

“Carol knew what she was,” George grunted. “One day, that would have got awful tiresome, but she was still young, so it seemed novel. But she’d turn out like Diane one day, I would have bet money on it. Shame hanging out with Becky didn’t ground her, but it just made her more full of herself in the end.” York was getting angrier. The way George talked about Carol, there was no respect for her life, nor for her death. She was a toy he would have been done playing with, if she hadn’t died first. York wondered if the only reason George felt anything about her death at all was that he’d been looking forward to throwing her away himself.

“We won’t know now,” York muttered crossly. “Now that she’s been murdered.”

“Yeah,” George grunted. “I guess not. Maybe it’s better she stays the way she was, rather than grow up to waste away.” Or, York thought to himself, anger boiling inside his stomach, maybe it would have been better for her to be allowed to grow up without any kind of self-motivated influences crushing her back down. “Becky might still be all right,” George added. “If someone moulds her right. She could be something good. She really needs to get plucked out of that hole she’s in.”

“What hole?” York asked, his question coming out sharper than he’d planned, but George’s casual assessment of the mourning eighteen-year-old was a little too much for him.

“That hole they all dug together,” George snorted. “Carol, and Becky, and Anna. All of them wanting to stay in their little fantasy world together, like children.” They were until recently, York thought.

“You didn’t like their friendship?” York asked.

“Not particularly,” George said. “Carol got off on impressing her high school friends, and they acted like she was made of magic. That’s fine to a point, but they had to let go sometime.” York was sure George was just sour that Becky and Anna’s friendship had managed to boost Carol’s confidence. He shouldn’t have worried. From what York could tell, Carol would never have left him while she was alive. “Anna would have been next after her,” George muttered.

“What?” York asked. “What do you mean?”

“After Carol!” George snarled. “She was next in that inheritance. Diane, Carol, Anna would have been next in line for the title.”

“What title?” York asked again, wondering what strange, persecuted thoughts George was struggling with. He was certainly angry. York wondered why he’d wanted them to meet up again, although he hated to admit George was probably starting to see him as a confidante.

“Queen of the fucking universe,” George scoffed. “That’s how they get, some of them. They grow up thinking they’re the next big thing, and if you let them keep thinking that, they’ll never learn. Diane certainly still does, even though she knows she can’t pull that shit with me. Carol was starting to. Anna’s just getting her feet wet, but with people treating her like she’s gonna be wearing that prom queen crown around town forever, she’ll never learn things right.”

“Oh. That’s… I see.” York was beginning to understand. He remembered everything George had said last time, everything about his mother. He was beginning to notice an unsavoury pattern, one that gave him a bad taste in his mouth just to be considering it.

“Gotta let them know early,” George muttered darkly. “Let them know what’s right.”

“Yes, I suppose those lessons have to come early. We learn so much about how things work when we’re children,” York said pointedly. He wondered if George realised what he was doing. If he knew he was lashing out at ghosts of the person who had really hurt him.

“Anna needs someone to teach her before she turns out spoiled,” George continued, apparently not done with his summary of Anna Graham’s life. “If she lives that long. If you don’t stop dragging your feet, then someone’s next on the chopping block, and your killer has a taste for haughty self-made queens, don’t they? She’s on borrowed time, that girl.”

“You mean because the Raincoat Killer murdered Carol, they’ll go after Anna next?” York asked angrily. This wasn’t a game to him. He didn’t agree with George’s casual approach to the case. The Raincoat Killer was a serial killer, not some opponent who was snatching up chess pieces from Greenvale’s board. “Then why target Quint?”

“Cause he was easy meat,” George said, shrugging his huge shoulders. “He would have gone down like a bag of feathers. Not Carol, though, she would have fought the bastard. Who they pick next depends on whether the Raincoat Killer got off on that, doesn’t it? Maybe they liked watching Carol struggle, maybe they preferred it taking Quint out without a fight. If my time as sheriff is worth anything, then I’ll tell you this. If they like it easy, it’s Becky Ames’ grave we’ll be digging. If they get off on watching someone die who’s scratching and screaming and fighting to live, it’s Anna Graham they’ll choose.”

“George,” York said coldly. “They’re people. Their deaths aren’t something to gamble with. If you think either of those girls is in danger, we should put some kind of protection on them.”

“Why?” George snarled. “Cause their lives are worth more than someone else’s?” York went silent. “You think the killer won’t kill just because we stick some uniform in the Grahams’ living room, watching that girl sleep and piss? Don’t be so fucking ignorant! They can’t get to her, they’ll kill someone else who fits their type. Diane, maybe. Diane would work for them. You want her dead instead? Does she deserve to live less than Anna does? Or maybe they do like to take the hunt out of it, say we try and keep Becky safe, and they kill Thomas because he’s the next vulnerable fucker on their food chain. Or they kill those little Ingram kids. String them up in the forest for their mommy. Maybe they want to try something new, so they kill Polly at the hotel. You could be the one to find her then, Agent York, would you like that? See her slumped over the reception desk with her head crushed inward? Is that what you want?”

“No, I –”

“Say they get off on killing women,” George went on with no regard for York’s objections. “Fiona at the hospital, Olivia at the diner, hell, even Emily isn’t safe! Which of them do you want the Raincoat Killer to choose, Agent York? Who gets to be the third sacrifice for that sick fuck? Maybe Quint was more their taste, though, let’s say that. Thomas is definitely next on their shit list, and I bet you’d love to see him spill his guts. It’d be poetic after they killed his sister, wouldn’t it? Both of them, together in heaven, or wherever the fuck we go. Maybe they can finish off with Harry’s assistant, put a knife through him and toss him over Velvet Falls. We can go and dredge him out together. Like a fishing trip. Pull that broken thing out of the water and try and guess how long ago it was human.”

“George, if you just –” York tried, but he wasn’t done.

“No, listen to me, Agent York,” George hissed. “You have one job. You find this fucking killer before anyone else dies. But you don’t sit here and tell me we need to ‘protect’ people, because that’s my job. I keep everyone in this town safe, and I’ll have a hell of an easier time of it if you do what you came here to do! Because I’ll tell you the ugly little secret about serial killers that you seem to have missed in all your time at the FBI. They will keep killing. If we don’t find them, they will keep killing. If we save Becky, if we save Anna, they will kill Thomas, they will kill Diane. Because we cannot have our eyes on everyone. Unless you wanna lock every single person in this town up in the community centre until one of them pulls out a knife, they will find someone to target. If we put any of them under protection, all we’re doing is saying that person is the only one worth saving. And I’m not prepared to do that. I’m not prepared to save anyone at the cost of anyone else. They’re all the same. They all deserve to be safe, and none of them are. So find the fucking killer, York. Find them and let’s end this.”

“All right, George,” York said in a small voice. He didn’t want to agree with what George had said, but he couldn’t argue with it. The man was right. They couldn’t protect everyone at once, and if this killer was as dedicated as they seemed, they would indeed not let a minor setback stop them until they had done what they wanted to do.

“The only person in this town I couldn’t bear to lose is Emily,” George muttered under his breath. “Thank god she can look after herself, that’s all I’ll say.” He began drinking from the bottle again, and after a minute, York realised George had all but forgotten that he was there. He got up to leave, but before he could disappear out the door, George had one last thing to say.

“Carol kept all her shit in the dressing room back there,” George said. “Might be something useful.”

“Thank you, George,” York said. He turned and pointed himself in the right direction. Another opportunity to poke through the things a dead girl had left behind. Thank goodness ghosts weren’t real, indeed.


	36. Photographic Memory

Chapter Thirty-Six. [ Photographic Memory ]

The dressing room wasn’t as populated as George had implied. There were closets in which a collection of dresses and accessories were left hanging up, a few arty posters on the wall, and a dressing table. The table faced a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs.

“She certainly wanted to be famous, didn’t she, Zach?” York thought aloud. “I guess she was, locally. She was a star in Greenvale. Hopefully that was enough.” He tried to avoid looking himself in the eye when facing the mirror. George’s accusations that it would be his fault if people kept dying still rang in his ears. After all, it was the truth.

The table top was covered in makeup and hair spray and brushes. There was even a sink. Carol had had everything she needed to prepare in this room. York looked through it all, expecting nothing. This room was filled with practical things. There would be no hints about Carol’s inner life here. This was where she prepared her outer shell, only. Under a palette of eyeshadow colours, he found a folded, creased piece of paper. He unfurled it and was surprised to see it was a photograph. Not the kind of memento he’d expect from Carol MacLaine. Far too sentimental. The picture was shaky and fuzzy, but he just about recognised the two in the frame. One of them was Carol herself, and the other was Anna. It looked like a snapshot one of them had taken, holding the camera up over their heads. They were both smiling. He couldn’t tell where the picture had been taken, although it was inside.

“Do you think Anna would object to another visit today, Zach?” York asked himself. “It seems she’s one of the few people who saw Carol’s softer side. Thomas, I suppose, knew her best, but he’s far too close to this. And we don’t want to push him back into the hospital with over-questioning.” He tucked the photo inside his jacket. It was getting late, if he was going to talk to Anna, it would have to be soon. He did a final search of the dressing table, finding nothing. Not until he felt underneath the counter. There was something stuck there, held on with tape. He peeled it off and held it up for a look. It was a key, unusually shaped.

“What do we have here, Zach?” York muttered, smiling. “Why was this key special? I wonder what it unlocks.” He put that away in his pocket as well, and went to leave the room. He hesitated before the door, remembering that George was out there. He shouldn’t have worried, as it turned out. When he went back into the main room, George was barely there. The alcohol was getting to him, and he was sitting, hands on his head, slumped on the bar, quietly moaning and groaning to himself. He wasn’t going to thank himself the next morning. York left as quickly as he could. Any more of George’s conversation tonight would be too much for him to bear.

As he was without a car, York was going to be forced to walk back to the sheriff’s department either way. He was glad it was a clear night. Anna’s house was nearby, a very short walk from his car, so it would be worth stopping by there first. Even if Sallie shooed him away at the door.

“I wouldn’t normally care for walking around Greenvale at night,” York muttered. “Still, if the killer tries to attack us, it’ll save us a lot of work, right, Zach?” He did have his gun. It would almost be worth it if they came out to get him.

It wasn’t a very interesting walk. York didn’t see a single soul out on the road, and was glad of it. It meant people were taking the looming threat seriously, and staying inside. When he reached the Graham house, he saw that the lights were off upstairs. Either they were in bed early, or in the living room. He knocked and waited.

“I’ll get it, you stay put.” Sallie’s voice came high and muffled from the back of the house. She arrived at the door and gave him a once-over, pulling her robe around herself tighter.

“Good evening, Sallie,” York said, trying to sound polite so she would return the favour.

“Yeah?” she asked. “What do you want?” That was a no on politeness, then.

“I just need to speak to Anna,” York said. Sallie narrowed her eyes, leaning against the doorframe so he had no chance of pushing past her.

“Why?” she asked. “What has she done? She’s been staying home.” York laughed cheerfully, but Sallie didn’t accept that either.

“I wanted to ask her about something of Carol MacLaine’s. It’ll be quick,” he promised.

“Anna!” Sallie shouted. “It’s the FBI agent.” She disappeared back into the house and was replaced a moment later by her daughter.

“Yeah? Uh, didn’t you get everything you needed this morning?” Anna asked flatly. She was speaking quietly, and York was sure she didn’t want her mother to know that he’d already been by once today. No doubt there would be endless questions if she found out.

“I just wanted to ask about this,” York said, pulling out the folded photo and handing it to her. Anna put a hand over her mouth and let out a wounded gasp.

“This… where did you get it?” Anna asked suddenly. She had a strained expression and York imagined seeing the photo of a happier time with her now dead friend was difficult for her. But he didn’t really have time to be tactful.

“I found it in her things,” he said, non-specifically. “It’s you and Carol, isn’t it? You seem very happy together.” Anna nodded numbly, staring down at the picture.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“But not always?” York said. “Because of Carol and Becky’s falling out, isn’t that right? You had to choose which of them to stay friends with, and Becky won, because she’s your best friend.”

“Woah! Like, Becky didn’t make me pick or anything!” Anna said, defensive over her friend. “I mean, I didn’t even totally stop being friends with Carol, I just, like, I didn’t talk to her much when we all stopped hanging out together. She was getting mean. And she was busy anyway with… her boyfriend.” She shifted awkwardly on her feet. “Do people know, about the sheriff and Carol I mean. Is it gonna be part of your case, or whatever?”

“I haven’t included it in anything official yet,” York admitted. “Because I don’t want the sheriff to know that I know, in case it’s important and he decides to hide any evidence that he has access to. It will come out in the end, when the murders are solved.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t think about that…” Anna said. “I guess if you guys don’t have enough evidence, you can’t put the killer in jail, right? Even if you know who did it?”

“Exactly, Anna,” York said, smiling. “Maybe you should try becoming a lawyer instead of a model.”

“Oh my god, no way!” Anna laughed. “Can you imagine? Law school? No, I think I’ll stick to what I’m good at.” York was glad she was comfortable with who she was. It was better than her trying and failing to fit someone else’s mould.

“We’re getting distracted,” York said, trying to go back to seriousness. “Can you tell me where that photo was taken, Anna?” She glanced down at it again, cradling the picture in her hands.

“I like taking pictures,” Anna said softly. “I like to remember stuff, all the good bits, you know? But when you only take pictures of the good bits, you forget how much shit there is in the world.” York frowned. There was a deeper story here than he’d anticipated. “Carol… was important to me,” Anna said at last. “Can I keep this photo?”

“Yes, of course,” York said. “You took it, after all.” Anna nodded. “I just want to know where it was taken, if you can tell me that.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Anna said apologetically. “Yeah, uh, we took this in Carol’s bar, actually. In the Galaxy of Terror.”

“Really?” York asked. He hadn’t thought the background looked like the bar.

“Yeah… in the… uh,” Anna hesitated. “I told you that Carol had this plan for her bar, right? Like, this thing she wanted me and Becky to help her with?”

“Yes, you did,” York said, remembering. “When you came to the sheriff’s department.”

“Hmm, yeah,” Anna agreed. “Well it was kind of part of that, I guess.” York was about to ask another question, but she kept talking, blurting out her words as if the whole thing was tricky for her to talk about. “Carol was a really good talker! You meet people like that, right, who can just make anything sound good. I kind of wish I could be like that, but I’ve always sucked at it… talking, and stuff. People don’t really… I guess people don’t care much what I have to say anyway, so I never practice. Like, what’s the point? No-one wants to listen to me talk.”

“Anna, that’s not right,” York said, trying for sympathy. “Your friends listen to you, surely? Becky must be interested in what you have to say.”

“Oh, she is, yeah!” Anna said, sounding guilty. “No, I don’t want to say she doesn’t, she’s super great. I just mean more like… boys and stuff. Back at school, they all treated me –” She stopped suddenly, and laughed awkwardly. “You don’t want to hear this. See? Classic Anna example!” She kept laughing, but York wondered if she meant it. It did occur to him that George was wrong about her, just as he had been wrong about Carol and Diane. Anna was not the full-of-herself, hair-sprayed prom queen George thought she was.

“Can you tell me more about this plan Carol had?” York asked. Anna stuck a hand in her hair, twisting a large chunk in her fingers.

“It was… weird,” Anna said. “She got herself into something bad, I think. With the sheriff, I mean, it was his fault, or his idea, or whatever. She changed the more she was with him. She got meaner. She had… bad ideas about stuff.”

“Did this idea of hers, that involved you and Becky,” York asked carefully. “Did it lead to Becky getting hurt?” Anna flinched.

“Becky’s fine…” she said. “She’s smart. She’s… smarter than me. She knew Carol was getting into something bad, even when I… didn’t.” She sighed quietly, her hand still twisting unhappily in her hair. “Carol and I…” she trailed off.

“Carol and you, Anna?” York pressed.

“I just liked her a lot,” Anna sighed. “I wish she hadn’t done what she did. I wish we could have stayed like we were before, when we were all friends. Before the sheriff got involved with her. She was nicer to me then. We could…” She cut herself off again, fiddling with her hair and looking down at the ground. “I just think things could have been better for us.”

“I think I understand, Anna,” York said gently. She looked up sharply, her eyes very wide.

“Oh my god!” she gasped. “Um, I didn’t mean anything… We were friends, and I just… I regret some stuff, okay! Please don’t think I meant anything… more than what I said.” She hesitated nervously, before adding a last thought. “Please don’t say anything to my mom, okay?”

“I won’t, Anna, this is all private,” York assured her. “I think I have what I need. Goodnight. Stay safe, will you? Don’t make your mother worry.”

“No way!” Anna said, laughing again, obviously trying to sound breezier than she felt. “I’ll stay inside. I know it’s dangerous.”

“All right. Make sure you do.” He gave her a small wave, and she sent one back, smiling and closing the door. York turned, raising his eyebrows and letting out a breath. “Well, Zach,” he muttered to himself. “Carol and Anna were certainly close friends, weren’t they? I think Anna wishes it was more than that, though. What do you think?”

He considered the question on the walk over to the parking lot where he’d left the police cruiser. The answer was obvious, he thought. It had been for a while, really. When Anna talked about Carol, there was a certain lightness to the memories she shared. It made it all the sadder what had happened.

“Do you think Anna could have helped her get away from George, Zach?” York asked aloud. “I don’t think she could have. I think it was already too late. Isn’t that a shame? Thomas isn’t the only one in mourning.” When he finally reached the car he let out a sigh, and shook his head. George’s path of destruction ran wider than he’d realised. His only match was the killer themselves. “What a wasted possibility,” York muttered. “But let’s get back to the hotel now, Zach. It’s been a long day.” He paused one last time to take out a cigarette, putting it between his lips and lighting it before he got behind the wheel. He hoped there wouldn’t be any more bad news for him tomorrow.


	37. Interception

Chapter Thirty-Seven. [ Interception ]

York was the first one into the department the next morning. He sat with a cup of Polly’s coffee in the conference room and enjoyed a few moments of quiet. After a while, Emily arrived. She came into the room with a smile and sat down next to him. He brightened up at once at the sight of her.

“Emily! I hope you’ve had a good morning,” York blurted out.

“Yes, so far,” she laughed. “It’s a bit early for a full assessment, don’t you think?”

“You’re right as usual, Emily,” York said warmly. Emily grinned, and York thought he saw her cheeks pink just slightly.

“So did you learn much yesterday?” she asked. “We didn’t talk much about work.”

“Actually, I did learn some things. I made a discovery,” York announced proudly. “I found a key in amongst Carol’s things at the Galaxy of Terror. I’m not sure what it opens, but it was there. I’m holding onto it until I can find out more.”

“Wow, that’s good,” Emily said. “And anything else?”

“I also learnt that Carol had someone looking out for her,” York said. “Anna, it seems, was quite fond of her, at one time.” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“That’s interesting,” she said. “Anna and Carol? Well, I think Anna was barking up the wrong tree, but I suppose it’s nice to think Carol at least had a chance at happiness.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” York agreed. No judgement from Emily at all, he was glad to note. Thomas really shouldn’t worry about talking to her about his own romantic life. “Do you think Anna is at risk, if our killer decides to pick another target? So far, the two victims were from the same social group. It has crossed my mind.”

“No, not really,” Emily said. “Wouldn’t that be too obvious? I mean, I’m new to this kind of thing, so correct me if you think I’m wrong, but this serial killer seems to be playing with us. They left us those creepy notes, and the way they’ve presented their victims so far just feels so overly dramatic. This is a game to them. It would be over too quickly if they just wiped out a clique of teenagers, don’t you think?” York was impressed that she’d put so much thought into it. He felt that she could have a good career outside of Greenvale if she ever wanted it.

“You could be right,” York agreed. “I certainly hope you are. Anna’s been through a lot, I’d like to make sure she has a chance to move on one day.”

“Becky too,” Emily agreed. “They’ve both been through too much with this. Not to mention, losing the parents they did in the past. I don’t think either of them is particularly lucky.”

“No, they’re not,” York said sadly. “But we have it in our power as officers of the law to make sure they get that happy ending.”

“Do we?” Emily laughed. “I wish I could conjure one up for myself while we’re at it!” York thought to himself that he would be more than happy to help with that. As he was wondering whether or not to make a joke about it, the door opened, and George nudged his head around the door.

“Agent York, Emily,” he greeted weakly. He looked half-dead, York thought. No doubt he was enjoying a powerful hangover. “Do you have plans for the day?”

“We’re just about to talk it through now, George,” Emily said. George nodded.

“If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” he mumbled. “I didn’t sleep well. Try not to need me.” He retreated off down the hall and Emily turned on York with a curious smirk.

“Agent York?” she asked. “When did that happen? Don’t tell me you’re actually getting friendly with George? Seriously, don’t.” She was more serious than she looked, York noticed. She was playing it off as a joke, just in case.  
“George and I spent the night together,” York said, before drastically reconsidering. “That is, we spent some time together in the evening. He wanted someone to talk to while he drank, and I went along in case any of it was useful to the case.”

“You had me worried,” Emily snorted, trying not laugh too loudly in case George came back to ask what was so funny. “Was it? Useful, I mean?”

“Not unless George’s opinions on his female friends, universally negative as they were, are helpful,” York sighed. Emily shook her head and her lip twitched with disgust. It wasn’t something either of them was willing to dig into too deeply.

“Anyway,” she said, trying to move things along. “What did you have planned for today?”

“I was thinking about it over my coffee,” York said. “I think the most important lead we can investigate right now is what Michael told us. About Harry’s phone calls. I don’t know how we’ll get either of them to talk to us, but that’s what I want to try and do.”

“I think you’re right,” Emily agreed. “And we’ll manage.” Her dedication was impressive, York thought. He had no doubts that with her working with him, they would manage to squeeze the truth out of one of their targets. “Come on,” she said, standing up. “It’s a long drive over there, I say this time we call ahead.”

“An excellent idea!” York said, sticking out his finger for emphasis. He followed Emily through to the entrance of the sheriff’s department where she went straight for the phone. York was happy to let her handle it. Of the two of them, she was still definitely the people person. She reached for a phone book, found the number, dialled, and waited.

“Hello?” Emily said into the phone when she got an answer. “Is that Michael?” York leant close and could just about make out the voice on the other end.

“Yes,” Michael said. His cold, human Dictaphone routine was back in force.

“This is Emily Wyatt, with the sheriff’s department,” Emily said. She sounded sunny and polite, but there was a knife’s edge behind it that York trusted Michael would also be able to hear. She was going to get what she wanted. “Michael, Agent York and I were interested in coming to follow up on some information you passed on to him recently.”

“Uhh…” Michael stammered briefly down the phone line. “If this is not about the investigation of that crime, we will have to do so another time.”

“Cause god forbid I do not rhyme,” Emily whispered to York, with her hand over the receiver. He snorted. “Michael,” she said, back to business. “Is there a reason we can’t come over and talk things through right now?”

“Mr. Stewart and I are going over to the hospital today, so you won’t have time to say what you have to say,” Michael answered.

“Thank you, Michael,” Emily said cheerfully. “That’s helpful. Goodbye.” She hung up. “Did you hear that?” she asked York.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “So, shall we take a trip over to the hospital now?”

“I think we shall,” Emily agreed, smiling with friendly determination.

♦ ♦ ♦

York and Emily strode into the hospital together. Aside from Fiona at the desk, there was no-one around. Presumably the skeleton staff was elsewhere in the huge building, and any patients were already checked in. York walked over to say hello while Emily took a seat to wait.

“Morning, Fiona,” he said. She grinned back at him, tucking the book she’d had open out of the way.

“Hey, Agent York!” she said happily. “Do you need anything?”

“I don’t suppose Harry Stewart is here, is he?” York asked. Fiona’s expression faltered momentarily with surprise.

“No,” she said. “But he is coming in soon. He has an appointment. How did you know that?”

“Good detective work,” York joked, tapping his nose. Fiona giggled. It occurred to York that the one and only person who was going to get hurt by Thomas’ news, if it got out, was sitting in front of him. He liked Fiona. She was a breath of fresh air during this grim mess of an investigation. He wondered if there was a way to ease her away from her apparently entirely unrequited feelings for Ushah.

“Are you guys here to see Harry Stewart then?” Fiona asked, unaware that York’s mind had moved onto more crucial topics.

“Fiona,” York said. “How’s the studying going?”

“Uh… oh!” she laughed. “It’s going well! I’ve got so much memorised, I think I can answer any question a test could possibly throw at me. I’ll prove it! Ask me what the difference is between encephalitis and encephalopathy!”

“That’s all right, Fiona, I believe you,” York said quickly. It wasn’t as if he’d know if she was right or wrong. Medical jargon was hardly his strong suit. “You know, when you graduate from medical school, you could get a job at a large hospital somewhere. Maybe as a surgeon, or a researcher. I’m sure you could do anything you set your mind to.”

“Do you think so?” Fiona asked shyly. “But… I think I might just come back here to work. This is home, after all.” York smiled. He felt he’d found the loose thread he needed to pull on.

“I hope you’re not intending to stay here for the wrong reasons, Fiona,” York said seriously. “It would be a terrible shame if you didn’t allow yourself the best opportunities because you were trying to impress someone.” Fiona looked embarrassed. She adjusted her glasses and blinked up at him guiltily.

“You mean… I shouldn’t stay here because of Ushah, right?” she said weakly. “I guess… you’re probably right. He might have inspired me, but if I don’t manage to make the most of my abilities, how can I ever live up to his example?”

“Exactly, Fiona, you’re very wise,” York said. He smiled gently at her. “I think Ushah would want that for you, if he cares about you, don’t you agree? As a friend, I know he’d want you to do what’s best for you.” Fiona nodded, lost in thought.

“I’m thinking about applying soon,” she said after a pause. “To school. I’m twenty-two now, I have money saved up. I think I’m ready. I just need to take that first step. I guess, maybe…” She hesitated, giggling awkwardly and letting a self-deprecating smile creep onto her face. “Maybe I’ve been letting my crush on Ushah get in my way. Like, I’ve ended up using it as an excuse not to go out there and do what I want. I kept telling myself I’d apply to school once I told Ushah how I felt about him! Then he would support me while I went, and at the end we could walk off into the sunset together, doctors in arms. It was silly. Anyway, I think you’re probably right. I can’t let myself get distracted from what matters.” York was very pleased to hear it. He’d known Fiona was a practical girl at heart, and now she’d proven to be strong as well. He should never have worried. She would be fine.

“Fiona, I think you’ll outgrow us all,” York said proudly. She smiled warmly up at him, her pale cheeks growing red under her spray of freckles.

“I’ll keep my options open,” she laughed. “Maybe I’ll even end up working as a specialist for the FBI one day.” York grinned.

“If you do, I’m sure my success rate will jump,” he said. Fiona laughed it off, putting a hand on her face as she did so. “For now, I should get back to my work,” York explained. Fiona waved him goodbye and he went to sit down next to Emily, who was smirking to herself.

“Flirting with Fiona?” she asked quietly. York’s face went blank.

“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “What do you mean?” Emily glanced over at the reception desk where Fiona was still the same bright shade as her hair, attempting to find her place in her book again with a large grin on her face.

“I suppose this case is too much for the FBI profiler to crack,” Emily laughed to herself. “How could you not have noticed how that all sounded? I feel bad for Ushah!” Now York was the one flushing with embarrassment. It certainly hadn’t been his intention, but looking back on it, he supposed Emily was right. He could have been misinterpreted.

“I don’t think Ushah will mind,” he mumbled. “And I’m sure Fiona won’t take any of this to heart.”

“I remember being her age,” Emily countered. “If a handsome stranger was flirting with me back then, I’m not sure I would have just forgotten about it.”

“A… handsome stranger?” York repeated, slightly stunned.

“I… If that’s your type,” Emily mumbled back, reaching quickly for a magazine. York found himself grinning. He tried to glance over at Emily subtly, without her knowing what he was doing, but she had her face buried deeply in the magazine anyway, and he couldn’t make out her expression.

“Hello, good morning! I’ll check you in!” Fiona called out, and York and Emily both looked up to see that Harry Stewart had arrived. Michael, who looked poisonously back at them, pushed him over to the reception desk. Harry was as silent and still as ever. As soon as Fiona had pointed them on their way, before Michael could make a move, York approached him and placed a hand on the edge of Harry’s wheelchair.

“Fiona,” he said, staring at Michael,” Why don’t you take Harry through to the doctor? Michael can wait here with us.” Fiona seemed shocked by the idea, but her expression couldn’t compare to the sheer look of horror on Michael’s face.

“I… guess,” Fiona agreed. Suddenly, Harry turned around, making York jump. He fixed York in his sights, staring him down behind the blank circles of the gasmask. Then, he twisted his neck back to look at Michael momentarily, before settling back into his usual slump. After a second of justified hesitation, Fiona stepped over to steer Harry away. Michael was left behind, staring numbly dead ahead. York motioned for him to come and sit. It took him a moment to move. When he was planted between York and Emily, they began.

“Michael,” Emily said, trying to sound friendly. “Agent York told me that you were worried about some strange phone calls Harry’s been making. Can you tell us more about that?”

“I don’t know what you want to know, will you please let me go,” Michael mumbled towards the floor. Emily looked over at York. He shrugged. He was more than happy for her to handle this.

“You have to wait here anyway, Michael, we may as well talk,” Emily said. “So, the phone calls.”

“I… don’t recall. The conversation has slipped my mind, so letting me leave would be kind,” Michael mumbled again. It was funny, York thought, how quickly he dropped the firm, professional tone he had when talking for Harry when he was on his own. He couldn’t even manage to make eye contact.

“Michael, you remember,” York said. “When I came to your house. You seemed nervous. You stopped rhyming, do you remember?”

“Is that true?” Emily asked. “So, why do you do that, Michael? Can you stop anytime?”

In response, Michael hunched forward and tugged his knees up, hanging his head so that his long hair fell down and covered his face. If he was any more uncomfortable, he might spontaneously combust, York thought.

“I knew it was a bad idea to mention it,” he said, voice muffled. “I knew there would be more questions about the call, I’ve let myself become a fool.”

“Michael, you haven’t done anything wrong, no-one is angry with you,” Emily said. She reached out and put a hand on his back, gently patting it. “But for everyone’s sakes, don’t you think you should tell us the truth?”

“The truth is like a muddy lake, it mustn’t come out for anyone’s sake,” Michael responded. “Mr. Stewart hasn’t done anything… he hasn’t hurt anyone. He hasn’t.” York and Emily exchanged another look. The insistence wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Does he have any connections to anyone in Greenvale we don’t know about, Michael?” Emily asked gently. “Can you tell us that? Or, could you at least tell us why you were worried?”

“I have… too much to worry about,” Michael mumbled. “Neither of you is going to improve anything. You can’t. You should leave me alone, I hate this. I hate this. It’s too much for me.”

“What’s too much for you?” York asked. He was nowhere near as gentle as Emily in tone, and while he thought her approach was arguably the better one, he was not as patient. “Has Harry asked you to do something you don’t want to do? Pass on messages or do something you don’t understand the significance of? Has he, Michael?”

“No,” Michael said quietly. “Mr. Stewart is good to me, even if not everyone can see. So… I should never have said the thing I did, and I wish I could reseal the lid.”

“Michael…” York said firmly. “Don’t play games.”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan,” Michael said, lifting his head. His expression was stoic and it was clear that he’d succeeded in suppressing the emotional outburst they’d been counting on. “I delivered that information to you because I was concerned, but this was not the response for which I yearned.”

“Michael, you were clearly worried about these phone calls,” Emily reasoned. “Just tell us a little more about it, and we can make sure nothing bad has happened. I’m sure everything is fine, but won’t you feel better when you know for sure?”

“Miss. Emily Wyatt, I already do. This interrogation is through.” Michael got to his feet and stood stiff-backed, facing them. As robotic as ever, York thought irritably.

“Would you rather we ask Harry about them?” Emily asked sharply.

“You won’t ask Mr. Stewart in case he has actually committed some sin, and risk him covering it up and closing in.” Michael stared blankly back at them with glass eyes. “I regret that I took part in this game. I am willing to accept the blame.”

“This wasn’t all some mind game of Harry’s, was it?” York asked. He couldn’t help but feel tired. “Was he really making phone calls, or did he just make you tell me that to screw around with my head?” Michael shook his head.

“Mr. Stewart knows nothing about what I told you,” he said. “Believe what you want, but that is true.”

“What does he have on you?” Emily snapped, sounding desperate and annoyed. “How does he get you to act like this? This isn’t normal behaviour, Michael, you can see that, can’t you?” Michael glanced away for a second, a mixed expression of doubt and sorrow crossing his face. Still, when he looked back it had all been washed away.

“I don’t believe there’s a way out. So it’s not something I can think about,” Michael breathed. “Now, leave me alone.” He turned on his heel and walked away, off in the direction that Harry had gone, desperately chasing after his boss. And running away from any possible help, York thought sadly. He was reminded of the other young people he’d met in Greenvale, and the various forces acting on them. There was Carol, who had completely failed to escape her bounds before it was too late. Becky, who seemed to let life toss her around like a ragdoll. Anna, whose plan to escape from fate had so far failed to extend to saving the people she cared about. And Quint, too, who York had never met, but whose happy existence had been easily snuffed out. Michael Tillotson seemed to be stuck in the same tar pit as the rest of them, in his own way. Even worse, as it happened, because at least Anna and Becky and Carol had had each other. Some small bit of comfort in a terrible time. Lacking even that, it couldn’t be easy.

“Fiona’s the only one of them who seems to be taking control of her life. Or succeeding at it, anyway,” York said.

“Of who?” Emily asked, jolting York out of his thought. He’d been talking to himself.

“Oh, Emily,” he muttered, before clearing his throat. “I meant that it’s sad to see people being manipulated, especially people who should be just starting their lives.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Emily agreed. “I still don’t trust Michael, though, do you? I think he’s playing with us. Or, Harry is playing with us through him, anyway. He’s not exactly the mastermind sort.”

“No,” York agreed. “That much is true.” The two of them sat and waited until eventually Harry and Michael reappeared. Michael had so completely recovered from their discussion, that it may as well not have happened. He resisted even looking over at them as he led Harry towards the exit. But the same was not true of Harry himself. As they went past, he stared at York and Emily and, York thought, he could just hear the quiet, muffled sound of sniggering coming from behind the mask. At least, he thought he had. He might have imagined it.

When they were gone, Emily got up and York joined her. There was nothing else to stay here for, they’d got everything they were going to get for now. Drawing the truth out of Michael was a little like trying to turn lead into gold. It was a long process, and York wasn’t entirely sure it would ever turn out the way that they hoped.


	38. Flowers in the Rain

Chapter Thirty-Eight. [ Flowers in the Rain ]

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Emily asked. York considered their options. They were in the car, getting close to the sheriff’s department. It would be easy enough to stop by the A&G diner and get some lunch, but he remembered the last time he was there, and the way Olivia had broken out of her shell to scream at him. It put him off the idea.

“I don’t know, Emily,” York said. “I’m not hungry.” Emily stuck her tongue out.

“Please, you’re always hungry!” she scoffed. “Come on, I want to eat. Or has your FBI lunch fund finally run dry?”

“All right, if you insist,” York said, smirking at her teasing, and pointing the car in the right direction. At least with her there, he would have a buffer in case Nick tried to shout him out of the place on sight. When they got to the diner, however, there was a car parked outside that they hadn’t been expecting to see.

“George is here?” Emily said, looking at his car. “I hope he won’t want us to eat with him. Honestly, I’m still struggling just having a normal conversation with him after… you know.”

“I know, Emily, it isn’t easy,” York agreed. “When the investigation is over, we can try and do something about George’s actions. If Thomas is willing to talk about it, that is.” Emily nodded numbly, and the two of them went inside. York noticed immediately that Olivia wasn’t there.

“They need to hire another waitress,” Emily muttered, having noticed the same thing. “If Sallie won’t let Anna come back to work, anyway.” They took note of George, who was sitting by himself with a large plate of food at the far side of the room. York led the way to a booth out of his eye line and sat down. Emily did the same.

They spent a while discussing what they were going to eat. There was plenty of time, considering Nick was the only one working and, presumably, he was in no hurry to encourage them to stay. York felt it was something of a shame that he hadn’t been able to see eye to eye with the chef. The diner was a very charming place, the perfect sort of all-American, old-fashioned diner you find in TV shows and memories. He would have liked to come here without feeling a constant, looming fog of suspicion, especially one that mingled unpleasantly with Nick’s bitter dislike of his presence. Maybe when the case was over, if neither Nick nor his wife were involved, as he hoped, he could come back and apologise and have one nice meal here.

“It’s you,” Nick said, when he deigned to show up at their table. “What do you want?”

“Can I have a steak?” Emily asked. “And coffee.”

“Hmm… I’ll have coffee, too, and…” York considered. “That sandwich again. The sinner’s sandwich. Bring me that, please, Nick.” Nick stared at him, incredulous.

“That jam and cereal monster you gave the cutesy nickname to?” Nick sighed. “Why, of course. And seeing as it is still not on the menu, I’ll feel comfortable overcharging you for it.” He strode back at the kitchen. It was almost possible to see the annoyance peeling off him, in waves.

“I wonder if Nick ever has any fun,” York muttered. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who knows how to relax.”

“I thought you said he was asking Diane for help with that,” Emily answered sarcastically. “Do you know anything more about that?”

“Not particularly,” York admitted. “Neither of the Cormacks is willing to open up much. If I had to guess, I’d say Olivia thought he was having an affair with Diane. It makes sense. The withdrawn, shy wife watches from the side-lines as her husband falls for his outgoing, attractive friend, knowing there’s nothing she can do to stop it. It’s a story we’ve all heard before. I’m just starting to think it isn’t the story we’re actually watching. Not this time.”

“I hope not,” Emily said. “Olivia’s a nice person, she deserves better than that.”

“I can’t say Nick and I get on, but I think they both deserve better than to be mixed up with Diane,” York said darkly. Emily shrugged. “He won’t talk to me,” York continued. “You know, you might be able to get more from him. Give it a try. What do you say, Emily?”

“Me?” she asked, surprised. “You want me to try and ask Nick if he’s having an affair. Over lunch. In public. Is that right?”

“Maybe not quite as directly as that,” York said. “Just see if he’s more willing to open up to a friendly face.” As he finished talking, Nick returned with their coffee. He poured them each a mug and was about to leave, when York promptly got up from the table.

“Something wrong with it?” Nick asked.

“No, of course not. I trust the coffee will be even more bitter than the service,” York said, smiling. “I just need to go and… say hello to a friend.” He walked away in the direction of George, who was apparently not happy to see him, leaving Emily alone. She stared after York for a moment, watching him try and settle into small talk with the unwilling sheriff, before realising he had meant her to follow through with the plan he’d half-conceived. It would have been nice if he’d given her a signal.

“So, Nick,” Emily said, half-heartedly. “I’m sorry for Agent York. He doesn’t always understand how to talk to people. Too detached, I guess.”

“That’s all right, Emily, it’s hardly your fault,” Nick said pleasantly. “I don’t exactly envy you, having to work with that boil.” Emily made herself laugh. Nick smiled. York had certainly been right, she was going to have a much easier time talking to Nick than he had. Until she brought up the suggestion that he was cheating on his wife, anyway.

“Is Olivia all right, then?” Emily asked, straining her face with fake concern. “She’s not here again. I hope she isn’t sick.” Nick sighed. He gave a glance over at York, checking the man was fully engaged in conversation, then sat down opposite Emily.

“It’s such a mess, Emily, I’ll tell you,” he said gravely. “Olivia and I are going through a really tough time. I’m… I’m not sure we’ll come out the other end of it.”

“Oh no!” Emily said. It felt wrong to be hearing this, knowing she was going to share it with York, but she had a job to do. She managed to push through the guilt. “What’s the matter?”

“Eh, I hope you don’t mind that I can’t give you the details,” Nick said. “Olivia would kill me if I did. Not that she admits to anything. It’s all cloak and dagger with her lately, and all my questions get a grand total of zero answers. I mean, I know her. I know what’s going on. She probably knows that I know, but hell if she’ll admit it. Maybe she thinks if she just keeps quiet, we’ll keep on living like this forever. Well, I can’t. I just want it to go back to how it used to be.” He sighed, hanging his head. “Not… not how it used to be before this, I mean right back in the beginning. When we first got married. It’s been bad for a long time, I know that. Things turned rotten, and it was my fault, I’m sure. I just want us to get through this. I’d do anything. And I don’t have anyone to turn to.”

“What about Diane?” Emily asked. “The two of you are friends, aren’t you?”

“Not now we’re not,” Nick said firmly. “No, that’s over. You know Diane was my best friend? Did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” Emily admitted. Nick nodded.

“She was,” he said. “Best friend I’ve had since… well, since high school. I didn’t think she’d do anything to hurt me. Guess you can’t trust people though, can you? No matter how close you are. People will always let you down.” He got up and while Emily tried to think what to say to that, he gestured back towards the kitchen. “I’ll go and get your food,” he said sheepishly. “It should be ready in a sec. Thanks. For listening.” Emily sighed and smiled, and let him go.

Meanwhile, York had been keeping an eye on the situation from his spot at George’s table. George had mostly spent the past few minutes berating him for letting him drink so much the night before. York had assumed full responsibility so as not to risk rocking the boat. The sheriff had just about calmed down now, and was beginning to talk about something else. York looked away from Emily, after seeing that Nick had left, and back at George.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asked. George glared at him.

“I was talking about those little white flowers,” George grunted. “That grow around town.”

“Daisies?” York asked. George looked at him as if he was a child.

“If I meant daisies, I’d say daisies,” he snapped. “No, they look sort of like that, but they love the rain. They only seem to bloom when it’s raining. Never seen them outside of Greenvale.”

“How elegant,” York said. “Some kind of rare mountain flower, no doubt?”

“Yeah, something like that,” George agreed gruffly. “I want to try and find a patch. I can never seem to find them when I want them.”

“Why do you need the flowers, George?” York asked. George sighed, tipping the brim of his hat to distract himself.

“I wanted… to put some on my mother’s grave,” he said quietly. York, who remembered George’s ugly story about the way his mother had tortured him as a child, hadn’t exactly been expecting that answer.

“You… do?” he asked, awkwardly. It didn’t seem right to actually question George’s motives, but he couldn’t contain his doubt. George shrugged stiffly, his large shoulders flopping heavily underneath his jacket.

“Yeah,” he said. “Out of respect. She might not have been a good mother to me, but she was all I had. At least she didn’t run out on me like my father did. I have to respect that.” York disagreed, though he said nothing out loud. He didn’t think George owed the woman a thing, particularly if she was dead. If it was him, he’d try and move on, and never think about her again. Although it had been made clear by now that George didn’t exactly handle things the right way.

“I suppose that’s good of you,” York said, struggling to keep his voice neutral.

“She loved those flowers,” George told him. He was starting to sound different. Wounded, like he had been that first night he’d summoned York to the bar. That vulnerable child he hadn’t quite grown apart from was showing again.

“I’ll leave you to it, George,” York said. George grunted in appreciation, and York was sure it was the right choice. He doubted George wanted him around if he was getting back into this mood. Not without a few shots of whiskey between them, anyway.

York walked back over to Emily, noticing that his food had already arrived and was waiting in front of his seat, on the table. Emily was tearing into her steak and she looked up when he appeared. He sat.

“Did George have anything interesting to say?” she asked.

“No,” York said, deciding to preserve the privacy of what George had told him. “Did Nick?”

“Not really…” Emily said. “Though I think you’re right. It doesn’t sound like he and Diane are having an affair. They’re not even friends anymore, if you believe him.” She sighed to herself, doubting the next thing she was going to say. “I think Olivia’s the problem,” she admitted.

“So do I, Emily. And I’m just as unhappy as you are about that,” York agreed. “But, we have to put aside our own preferences, in favour of getting justice done. That’s what matters.” He picked up his sandwich and brought it to his mouth. In that moment, there was a sudden loud crack outside. The sudden noise caused York to drop the sandwich, and it fell to his plate, squirting jam onto his shirt and tie. He reached for a napkin to wipe at it.

“I didn’t even realise it had started raining,” Emily said. York realised she had heard the noise too, and that it had been thunder. A storm must have come on suddenly, while they’d been sitting inside. He looked out the window and was able to see it, rain coming down heavily, grey clouds blocking out the sky. A waste of an otherwise nice day.

At the sound of the thunder, several of the other diner patrons got up, scurrying towards the door like frightened rabbits. It was odd, York thought, to see people so unprepared for rain in a town in Washington. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t seen a single person in possession of a raincoat since he’d arrived in Greenvale. He wondered if it had something to do with the old town legend. If the story of the Raincoat Killer was that pervasive, then he was definitely missing something. Few adults took children’s fairy tales to heart.

“We should go, really,” Emily said. “Nick’s here alone, he’ll probably close up if a storm is coming in. Can you take me back to the sheriff’s department?”

“Of course,” York promised. He looked at the sandwich he’d ordered. It had collapsed in on himself when he dropped it. It was just as well, he supposed. He’d only ordered it because Harry Stewart had got into his head. What a charismatic sandwich, he thought. It really stuck in his mind.

York drove Emily back to the sheriff’s department so she could get her car and head home. He got out to say goodbye. She thanked him, and he watched her run off, hand over her head to futilely keep her hair dry. She didn’t seem too bothered by the rain, he thought. He realised he was standing outside of his car, getting soaked, and that his shirt and jacket were clinging to him in protest. He should pay more attention.

“We should get inside, Zach,” he muttered. “We’re already going to have to change suits.” As he went to open the car door, his eyes fell on something at the far end of the parking lot. Little white specks, glistening on the ground beneath a bush. He went over, kneeling down, muddying his legs without much thought.

“Do you think these are the flowers George mentioned, Zach?” York asked himself. They did look a lot like daisies, although he supposed they were bigger, and the centres were flat. They must be a relative. After a moment of consideration, he reached out and picked a few of the prettiest ones.

“Maybe it’ll give him some peace,” York muttered. “George has a lot of things he needs to put to rest. Maybe these will help him do that.” He took the flowers back to the car, shielding them with his hand so they weren’t flattened by the rain. He placed them carefully in the cup holder and went over to the sheriff’s department. If he was going to deliver them, he’d need George’s address.

♦ ♦ ♦

George’s house wasn’t what he’d been expecting. The outside looked broken down in places, all the windows were shuttered, and ivy grew unchecked over the walls. It looked as if the place had been abandoned. York hoped the address he’d got from the department’s records was accurate. When he knocked on the door, he heard the sound of a chair being scraped hastily across the floor from inside. When George answered, he kept the door pulled tight to his head, peeking through the crack. The lights were off inside. York couldn’t see a thing but blackness.

“Agent York,” George snapped. “I don’t remember inviting you to my house.”

“You didn’t, George, and I won’t be long,” York assured him. George’s expression did not falter from a bitter frown. He was a tough man to please, York thought. “I just stopped by to bring you something,” York said. He held out the flowers he’d brought from the car. George hesitated, looking between York and his offering, before cautiously stretching out his hand and taking them. He acted like a deer in a hunter’s sights, York thought. Interesting, when he was normally on the other side of that equation. Maybe he was just that unused to someone doing something nice for him.

“These are… the flowers,” George mumbled, coming off almost shy. “You got these for my mother, did you?” York smiled.

“That’s right,” he said. “I hope she appreciates them.” After he said it, it sounded strange. George didn’t seem to object.

“She will,” he said. “Thank you… Agent York. Now, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something.” George shut the door and went back inside. York shrugged. He just hoped George took the flowers to his mother’s grave before they wilted.

With that errand out of the way, it was time to return to the hotel and wait out the rain. Greenvale became a ghost town in bad weather, and while the storm carried on, York felt he may as well be somewhere warm with a hot cup of coffee in front of him. He kept the soothing image of Polly pouring him refill after refill in mind as he drove back home. When he got in, he was glad to see she hadn’t abandoned her post at the desk in the lobby.

“Mr. Morgan! I’m so glad you’re out of that horrible weather,” Polly said happily as he walked towards her. “I imagine you’re not used to sudden storms where you live.”

“No, Polly, I am not,” York admitted. “Although I’m not sure anyone else in town is either. I haven’t seen anyone carrying a raincoat all day. I wonder if anyone checks the forecast.”

“Oh, Mr. Morgan, people just have bad associations with those things, that’s all,” Polly laughed. “They’d rather be inside when it rains, I expect.”

“Bad associations, Polly?” York asked, feeling a twinge of sudden interest. “With raincoats?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Polly said dismissively. York wished she’d focus. This felt important. “At least with my generation. And people pass that kind of thing onto their children, don’t they?”

“Is this because of the Raincoat Killer?” York asked loudly. “Do people in Greenvale stay out of the rain because of that story?”

“Why, that makes sense doesn’t it?” Polly said, smiling. “Yes, that must be it.” York gave up. Even if she’d known something once, it was totally inaccessible now. Her memory was disappearing faster than puddles in the morning.

“Polly, I wonder if you would be so kind as to make me some coffee,” York asked. “I just need to change out of these wet clothes, then I can join you in the dining room.”

“Well, Mr. Morgan, I can make you some coffee, but I can’t help you with the second thing!” Polly gasped, laughing to herself. “What would my husband think? You really must find a nice girl your own age and leave me be!”

“Of course,” York said. “What was I thinking?” As soon as he was out of sight, he rolled his eyes. If Polly didn’t get her hearing checked, someone might actually take her up on one of her suggestions someday. Maybe it was just as well she didn’t entertain many guests in the hotel. When he had changed into one of his backup suits, a nice creamy pink with a salmon tie, he went through to the dining room and found his usual seat at the end of the long table. Polly was already brewing the coffee. When she brought it over, he didn’t waste a second before taking a sip.

“Excellent as always, Polly,” he murmured contentedly.

“I’m glad,” she said. Before she could go and sit down at the far end of the table, York managed to distract her.

“So, Polly,” he said loudly. “Have you seen Diane recently?”

“Yes, I have,” she answered. “She told me her sister is struggling at the moment. Poor girl.” York was intrigued by the news of Diane lamenting Becky’s recent problems to anyone, but it wasn’t the point he wanted to get stuck on.

“Did she mention Nick Cormack at all?” York asked.

“I don’t think she was feeling sick, she seemed fine,” Polly explained.

“No,” York sighed. “Did she mention Nick Cormack at all?” he repeated, louder.

“Oh, Nick,” Polly said. “She mentioned something about him following her around. A shame, really, that their friendship turned sour. She used to be close with him. But, what was it… she told me she realised he just wasn’t the man she thought he was. That is sad, don’t you think?”

“Did she say what she meant?” York asked.

“No, not really. She was saying something about how he treated his wife, but I’m not sure. I forget, I’m afraid.” Polly smiled apologetically at him and, while York was thinking, went to go and sit down after all. By the time he had more questions, she had placed herself at the end of the table, and he doubted any of his questions would make it through to her.

York occupied himself by drinking coffee and trying to warm up. The rain had really got to him, soaking him through, and he’d barely noticed. He wished he’d brought a coat with him. He did have a lightweight waterproof poncho packed away somewhere, but it offered so little protection from the kind of rain Greenvale enjoyed, he barely saw any point in digging it out of his suitcase. As he was starting to feel truly homey, forgetting for a moment that he was in a hotel at all, he heard the loud voice of Forrest Kaysen coming through the hallway, accompanied by the occasional low bark of his Dalmatian.

Forrest entered the room a moment later, wet from the rain. He came to join them at the table without asking, bringing a chair up to the middle of the long table and planting himself in it. He looked down at York with his usual idle smile plastered across his face.

“Hey York!” he called out. “How’s the weather down there?”

“I imagine a lot better than it is outside,” York said dryly. “Have you been out in it for long?”

“Caught me out on my way back here!” Forrest laughed. “I thought it would be a nice day to spend with Isaach and Isaiah, out in the woods. Turns out I was wrong! Had to hurry on back to the truck, while they took shelter with their grandpa. Imagine they’re still up in the cabin, enjoying the sound of rain against the windows.”

“I doubt they made the journey back in this storm,” York agreed. “Does your dog not mind the weather?”

“Who, Willie?” Forrest asked. “Naw. He’s built for it, ain’t ya boy? He loves the rain.” The dog looked blankly up at Forrest. York thought it was odd how it rarely seemed to get excited, as most dogs did. It tended to just sit quietly, as if it was a person. Even when it played with the children, it was relatively quiet. He found it more than slightly creepy, now that he thought about it.

“Forrest, you know Diane,” York said. “Has she mentioned Nick Cormack to you lately?”

“Nick? Why, yeah I guess so,” Forrest said. “She mentions him quite a lot. They’re good friends, though I think they’re having some issues at the moment. Oh, she was complaining about it recently, but she didn’t say why. I figure maybe Nick didn’t approve of one of her… other friends?” He winked, and York took his point.

“Thank you, that’s helpful,” he said, getting up. He didn’t particularly want to stay and chat with Forrest. The man still unsettled him.

“Mr. Morgan, are you leaving already?” Polly asked from the far end of the table. “I thought it might be nice to have all of us here together.” York smiled sadly across at her and shrugged, as if it was out of his hands.

“You know,” Forrest added quickly. “There’s no reason for you to be so harsh on Diane. She’s not involved with all this.”

“And I suppose you know who is?” York asked sarcastically. Forrest paused, then, slowly, let a wide smile darken his face. York shivered. Forrest’s face cleared a moment later.

“Me? Of course not, York!” Forrest laughed. “Why, I’d love to help you out, I would. I think I’d make a good sidekick, don’t you? Too bad!” He dissolved into laughter and York nodded blankly before turning and hurrying off out of the room.

He was probably imagining it. Forrest made him uneasy through no fault of his own. It was just one of those personality clashes that happened from time to time. Still, the look on his face back there made York feel cold through to his skeleton. The kind of cold no amount of coffee was going to clear up.


	39. I Know That I Need It

Chapter Thirty-Nine. [ I Know That I Need It ]

The rain didn’t seem eager to stop. York ended up sitting in his room all afternoon, watching old movies on the television and thinking through some of the finer points of the case with Zach. The sound of the storm outside never faltered. York occasionally went to look out the window, just in case he was hearing things, but the rain was still pouring down whenever he checked. By evening, he was lying back on his bed, the television off, cigarette smoke climbing into the air and disappearing against the ceiling.

“There is one thing that bothers me, Zach,” York said aloud. “All right. A lot of things still bother me, but this in particular. It’s about what the Ingram twins said about Carol. That they saw her in the woods at night. What do you think that means?” He frowned to himself. “Could they really have seen her? The dead don’t traditionally go walking around at night, right, Zach? Well… with one possible exception.” He remembered Brian. The possible ghost, possible hallucination, definite unknown quantity. He supposed there was a chance that Carol had ended up in the same state as that. He shook his head. “No, Zach. We have to use Occam’s razor here. Those are just two children with active imaginations, filling in the blanks of something they don’t understand that’s barely been explained to them. Carol had to leave town, so she went camping in the woods. That makes sense to them. As for the story they told Keith about a ghost in the graveyard… I doubt they really saw anything there. They must just be following Keith’s amateur paranormal investigator lead.”

York couldn’t decide if it was sweet or worrying for Keith to share his gory interests with his children. Hopefully, he didn’t go overboard. If Lilly had anything to say about it, he probably couldn’t. She seemed like the type of mother who wouldn’t put up with anyone damaging her boys. So, no stories about girls hanging themselves from balconies at bedtime in the Ingram household.

As he was lying around, thinking about Lilly Ingram’s possible parenting habits, there was a knock on the door of his hotel room. It took a while for him to hear it, with the rain, but eventually it was clear that someone was trying to get his attention. York got up, tapping his gun in its holster to reassure himself it was still there. He had seen too many TV shows where the detective goes to answer his door late at night, only to be shot by a villain. He hoped his story wasn’t going to end in such a cliché.

When York opened the door, he was surprised. Pleasantly. Emily was there, hair damp from the rain, her uniform replaced by a blue dress. She smiled at him, and for a second, the storm was replaced by a summer sun. Then, he was just painfully aware that she must be freezing.

“Emily, please, come and sit down. I’ll get you a towel.” York hurried off to the bathroom, hearing the sound of Emily laughing behind him.

“Not going to ask why I’m here? That’s all right,” she said. “Actually, everywhere in town seems to be closed and, well, I suppose I just wanted some company.” York returned with the towel to the sight of Emily settling down on the sofa. He handed it over, and went to lean against the wall opposite.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer,” York apologised. “There are some lollipops from the vending machine over on the desk.”

“Lollipops?” Emily laughed. “Are you sharing this room with a ten-year-old?” Still, she got up to go and get one. As she picked one out, her eyes fell on the wooden bird carving York had placed on the desk before. She picked it up. “What’s this?” she asked.

“That? I found it in the diner,” York explained. “I’m not sure where it came from. It’s nice though, isn’t it? Country kitsch.”

“You just took it?” Emily asked. “What if someone lost it?”

“Are you concerned for our little lost bird, Emily?” York asked, grinning. “I think we have a slightly more important case to concern ourselves with.”

“You’re right,” she said, smirking and putting it back down. She unwrapped the lollipop and tucked it into her mouth, going back to her seat. “I wish Richard kept the bar open. I wasn’t planning on cooking tonight. I don’t blame him, but still.”

“I understand,” York said, silently thankful that Emily wouldn’t be poisoning herself with some half-cooked stew tonight. “Richard is probably still dealing with a lot of uncertainty over Quint’s death. I just hope we can bring him answers soon.”

“So do I,” Emily said, her smile faltering. “York…” she said slowly. “Are there often cases that you just… can’t solve? I mean, when you never manage to find the killer?”

“Sometimes…” York muttered unhappily. “It doesn’t happen that often. The cases I’m assigned tend to be the kind the FBI wants solved as a priority, so I’m usually given as long as I need to bring someone in. Of course, that doesn’t mean it happens every time. Sometimes, you run out of leads, sometimes there are mistakes. Those are the most frustrating. When you feel like there should be more you can do, but the killer gets away anyway. I… I try not to let cases go unsolved.”

York stared down at the floor. The storm outside kept him from thinking too hard, the noise echoing around inside his head. Still. The thought was there. A certain memory. One he could never get away from. He sighed to himself. While she was here, he thought. While she was here, he wanted to tell her.

“Emily,” York said, his voice turning serious and heavy. She clearly noticed the shift in tone, straightening up her back and freezing her face. “I want to tell you a story. I want to tell you about exactly how my parents died.”

“If… if you’re sure,” Emily said in a low voice. York came away from the wall and sat down beside her. He rested his face in his hands, and began.

“I was seven years old,” York said steadily. “My father worked as an FBI profiler. My mother stayed at home. I remember being close to my mother. She spoiled me, I think. My father was more distant. I admired him, but we were never a model father and son relationship. No… It’s funny. I followed in his footsteps, but I still can’t tell to this day if he would have been proud of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said. York nodded appreciatively, and continued.

“One day,” York said, his voice dropping unconsciously. “One day I came downstairs. No-one had woken me up. I went into the living room, and my father was there. He was standing in the centre of the room, facing the open window. I was going to ask him what was going on, but at that moment, I saw the gun.”

“Oh my god…” Emily breathed.

“I couldn’t move,” York continued. “Everything was happening so strangely. It was like I wasn’t inside my body. I was watching it all happen from outside, in slow motion. I remember catching sight of my mother, lying on the floor. I don’t know how she wasn’t the first thing I saw. She was behind my father. Her head… It looked like it’d been caved in. When I try to remember it, there’s just this angry red buzzing. I can’t see the picture clearly. No. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” Emily said. If York hadn’t been absorbed in the story, he would have noticed her putting an arm around his shoulder.

“My father noticed me,” York continued. “Did I make a noise? I don’t know. He turned around, with the gun still in his hand. I know I felt something strong in that moment, something unbearable, but when I think back on it, all I can remember clearly is what he said to me in that moment. ‘At times we must purge things from this world, because they should not exist. Even if it means losing someone that you love’. And then, he shot himself in the head.”

“Jesus, York!” Emily gasped. He didn’t react, still immersed in his memory.

“Yes,” he said. “He killed my mother, then he killed himself. And I don’t know why. I still don’t know why. No-one even tried to solve the case, as far as I can remember. It’s just washed away with that incomplete summary of events. When I was younger, I wondered if there might have been someone else in the house that day. If, maybe, he didn’t kill my mother. Someone else did, and he couldn’t bear to live without her. She was shot with his gun. The one he killed himself with, the one in his hand. But I never saw what happened before I walked into the room. Anything could have happened. Twenty-six years without a clear answer. That, Emily, is why cases should never go unsolved. All the unanswered questions, the possibilities, just eat you alive. They just… eat you up. You can never be whole again. Not until it’s finished.”

There was silence. Emily’s arm sat numbly against York’s shoulder, providing no comfort. When the shock of his story began to wear off, she pulled it closer around him and squeezed. Only then did he notice she was there.

“Don’t worry, Emily,” York mumbled. “I was fine.” This did not reassure her.

“What happened?” she asked, horrified. “Afterwards, I mean… what happened to you?”

“Luckily, my father was always very punctual and reliable at work,” York explained. He couldn’t help but laugh a little, subtly attempting to mute the emotional weight of his story so far. It didn’t much work, on either of them. “One of his co-workers called the house, and worried when there was no answer. They sent someone round to check on him. The front door was apparently open, and they found me in my bedroom closet. I ended up with my grandparents. It really could have been worse.”

“Still…” Emily breathed. “That time before they found you, when you were alone? That must have been… I can’t even imagine.”

“I wasn’t really alone,” York said. “Zach… I had Zach with me.”

“Is Zach your brother?” Emily asked. “You never mentioned him.”

“No, he’s not my brother,” York said uncomfortably, finding himself settling further into the crook of Emily’s arm. “He’s… someone else. Someone I can’t really explain. But he’s been with me since then. He looks out for me.” Emily said nothing. York appreciated it. It would be hard for him to answer any more questions. This was the best thing she could do, the exact right response. He realised he had closed his eyes some time ago.

“My grandparents tried to help me deal with what happened back then as well as they could,” York said. With his eyes closed, it was like he was talking into the void, his words drifting off into the darkness. Safe, unspoken, unheard. “But their idea of how to help wasn’t exactly the same as mine. I think they thought I was handling it worse than I was. They took me to doctors, who didn’t understand. They never wanted to listen to me. But it got worse.” He let out a long breath, appreciating the warmth of Emily’s skin against him. It made it easier. “They tried to make me take medication. Apparently, that would help me to adjust to the reality of my situation. That was the worst time in my life. After everything, the one person in my life that I could count on, was taken away. I don’t know why. But without Zach… without being able to talk to him, to hear him talk to me, no-one there who understood, I had nothing. I needed him back, and I couldn’t find him. It was like the path to him had been obscured. Overgrown with tree branches, and weeds. I don’t think I have any doubt when I say it was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“I think I understand,” Emily said after a while, her voice coming to York through the darkness, soft and soothing.

“Eventually I stopped taking the medication, and they realised they couldn’t force me back onto it,” York sighed. “And now, Zach and I are together. He’ll always be there for me. I need that. Sometimes… I don’t understand it, but I know, I know that I need it.”

“It’s all right,” Emily’s voice came gently again. A moment later, York felt her hand brush his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realised was there.

“I don’t remember the last time I cried,” he said, voice muted. “I should stop. I’ve said what I wanted to say. Thank you, Emily. For listening to me.” He sat up and, in a moment, opened his eyes, letting himself return to the world. Emily was there, her face close by, and he let it fill his vision completely for a moment, blocking out everything else. Her soft blonde hair, concerned eyes, and a smile that bordered worry and affection. Then, suddenly, Zach’s voice in his head, telling him what he realised he’d known for a while. You love her. You love her. You love her.

“I’m glad I could help,” she said softly. There was a moment, a long, drawn-out moment where York sat still, weighing nothing, and staring into her eyes. If she just leant forward now, she would break the illusion and he would disappear, disperse into the air like a fog. She looked back at him, smile warming, no obvious intention of turning away.

“Emily…” York murmured. “I’ve never told anyone about this before. You’re the first.”

“Then I’m honoured,” she said, blinking. “York, when we met I kind of thought you were, well, arrogant. Or just clumsy with people. But you’re hiding a lot underneath the surface, aren’t you?”

“Most of us are,” York said. “It’s just about what’s in there.”

“You know,” Emily said. “Before my mother died, I mean right before she died, she gave me something.” She reached down and pulled up the necklace she was wearing, revealing a golden leaf pendant on the end of a silver chain. “I take it with me almost everywhere. It’s the thing I treasure most in the world. It’s kind of like a lucky charm. I like to think that, when I have it, she’s able to watch over me.” She looked back at York, the smile on her face sad, but comforting all the same. “I have this. And you have Zach,” she said.

“We’re more similar than I realised,” York said softly. “We all have our own rituals. Who knew the two of us could understand each other so well?”

“Who knew,” Emily repeated. They faded into silence again. Neither one needed to say anything else, knowing that more words would just taint the moment. York lost all track of time. He could easily believe that they were sitting there, leaning against each other, for just five minutes, or fifty years. It seemed to exist outside time. Outside reality. When Emily eventually got up, saying she had to get home, the moment was sealed up, packaged away, never to end. It would always exist, always be happening, and he would never forget it. York said goodbye to her at the door, and there was a brief hesitation there, where she hovered, before saying goodbye back. When the door closed behind her, York realised he’d barely been breathing.

He went to lie down on the bed, curling up to sleep whilst ignoring the fact that he was still almost fully dressed. He let himself take all the breaths he’d forgotten to while Emily had been in the room. He pressed himself into the pillow, eyes tightly shut in the darkness, and heard Zach’s voice reverberating around inside his head again, never-ending until he fell asleep. You love her. You love her. You love her.

He did.


	40. Locked Door

Chapter Forty. [ Locked Door ]

York had been in Greenvale for two weeks, although he had almost forgotten what it was like before. It felt like another reality. A part of him couldn’t help but feel he would never leave. That the trees surrounding Greenvale would grow over him, roots winding up his legs, and tie him down, bringing him to the ground to till the soil. Until one of those red seed spilling trees sprouted out of the end of him, and he was gone. Even if it did, he wouldn’t regret it, for one simple, overwhelming reason.

Despite trying to push it out of his mind, the only thing York could think about was Emily. Whenever he thought about the case, it came down to how much he had enjoyed working with Emily. When he thought about his time in Greenvale, it turned to how glad he was to have met Emily. And of course, the revelations of last night would not disappear from his thoughts no matter what. The memories were constantly there, twittering, whispering to him. This continued constantly all the way through his morning routine, through the drive to the sheriff’s department, and through the walk across the parking lot. All the way until he walked through the doors and saw Ushah waiting for him.

“York,” Ushah said. He was frowning, and York thought he had been pacing before he walked in.

“Hello, Ushah,” York greeted, intrigued. “Is something wrong?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Ushah answered, half-laughing, but without dropping his serious expression. “It’s Thomas. He’s locked himself in his sister’s bar, and he won’t come out.”

“Why is this?” York asked. The last time he’d seen Thomas, he’d thought there had been some progress. This was certainly not welcome news first thing in the morning.

“He wasn’t making much sense,” Ushah said. “He called me, I went over, but he would barely talk to me! I need backup and, well… I can’t exactly ask anyone, can I?” He cringed. York nodded.

“I’ll help,” he said. “Let’s go there now.” Ushah thankfully hurried after him as they went back out to the parking lot together. Before York could reach his cruiser, he noticed a rather attractive car parked on the other side of the lot. “Is that yours?” he asked. “It’s fantastic!”

“The car? That’s right,” Ushah said. He hesitated, and laughed briefly to himself. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about that now?”

“I just mean that someone with a car like that must be doing well for himself,” York said, smirking. “I know Fiona implied as much, but you really are quite the catch, Ushah. Rich and young. That’s as good as it gets.”

“You know you’re talking out loud?” Ushah laughed. He was clearly flattered, despite the circumstances. “Maybe you should have brought this up before. I’m afraid I’m committed right now.”

“I guess I should have,” York said. Ushah shook his head, smiling to himself. “I’m sorry,” York said, remembering what they were doing. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

They drove over to the Galaxy of Terror straight away. When York tried the front door, he found that it was unlocked. When he turned to Ushah, he was informed that Thomas was locked in Carol’s dressing room. Apparently, that was the door on which Ushah had spent thirty minutes knocking, trying to coax him out.

“You know,” Ushah sighed. “I can’t help but think a lot of the blame for this lands at Carol’s feet. I mean, I’m as sorry she’s dead as anyone. I just wish I didn’t have to watch Thomas grieve over someone who did him so much damage.”

“Damage?” York asked.

“Keeping him with… that man!” Ushah sighed roughly. “Thomas would do anything she told him to. And he’d never get away from… him, not while she was involved. Honestly, it might have taken too much, and I hate to see it end this way for her, but I’m just glad he’s free, finally.”

York nodded, unwilling to agree completely with Ushah’s assessment. He didn’t personally think you could weigh either Carol or Thomas against the other and choose which one to save. Then again, he was an idealist. He walked through and knocked heavily on the dressing room door.

“Thomas,” York called out. “It’s York here. Can I come in?”

“No!” Thomas shouted from within. “Go away, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone!”

“Thomas, can you please just tell me why you’re upset?” York implored.

“They’ve been in here!” Thomas wailed. The fact that he was crying was obvious. “Someone’s been in here, touching her things! They moved things around behind the bar. They don’t have any respect! My sister is dead and they think they can just throw her things around like she never existed!”

“Ah, Thomas, I see,” York said. He felt more than slightly guilty for his role in Thomas’ breakdown, knowing as he did that George had wandered in without a shred of respect for Carol’s memory. And that he had watched him do it.

“It was George, it’s always George,” Thomas moaned. “He came in here and played around with it all, like he used to do with her. He never cared… I… Why didn’t I stop him before? When it would have mattered?” He devolved into sobs behind the locked door, and York and Ushah shared a look of concern. York knocked again.

“Please let me in so we can talk,” he begged. “Thomas, nothing will be solved like this. Let’s talk this through. Can you unlock the door?”

“Who’s out there?” Thomas asked.

“It’s just me, York, and Ushah,” York said. “No-one else is here. No-one else knows anything about this, Thomas. You’re safe.” There was silence. York kept his hand hovering close to the door, waiting to knock again. Eventually, the sound of a key turning in the door came to them, followed by nothing. York hesitated for a moment, then opened the door.

Thomas was sitting on the floor of the dressing room, his head in his hands, shaking lightly with muted sobs. The closets in which Carol had kept her costumes were all open, their doors peeled back. The table covered in makeup and brushes had been disarranged, its contents muddled up and spilled onto the floor in a flurry. It was obvious why. York found himself staring. Thomas, crumpled up on the floor like a piece of tissue paper, was wrapped in a long red dress, presumably one of Carol’s, with black smudges oozing down his cheeks where he’d cried away the makeup.

“Thomas, it’s me,” York mumbled. He hesitated before taking a step closer. Thomas did not react to him, choosing instead to sit and continue crying into his hands. York took another cautious step towards his friend, then abandoned his hesitation and knelt down beside Thomas, pulling him into his arms. At this, Thomas shivered. Then, a moment later, returned the hug.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” York murmured to him. “Give yourself a minute.” This only made Thomas cry more, sobbing into York’s shoulder while York tried to pat his back and calm him down. Ushah came into the room and sat down in a chair, waiting to be useful.

“York, why do you always come to save me?” Thomas sobbed. It was hard to make out the words, muffled as they were by both tears and York’s jacket.

“You’re my friend,” York said simply. “I care about you. And saving people is what I do.” Thomas managed to laugh at that, though York hadn’t intended it to be a joke. Still, it was reassuring when Thomas pulled himself back and wiped awkwardly at his eyes. It was too late to do anything about the mass of mascara already spread across his cheeks, however. He would need a touch up.

“This is… this isn’t the best way for you to find out about… everything,” Thomas eventually sighed, when he’d regained his composure. York smiled.

“I find there’s never a good way to find out about things people feel uncomfortable about,” he said. “But I’m here now, so I suppose you can tell me what’s going on.”

“With this?” Thomas asked, gently tugging at the dress he was wearing. “Ushah didn’t tell you already?” York looked over at Ushah, who shrugged. He was glad to see that Ushah didn’t seem at all surprised or bothered. Whatever story Thomas was about to tell him, this was clearly an ongoing concern.

“He didn’t,” York replied. “I assume he wanted you to be able to tell me yourself. If you wanted to. Is this… the reason you were so upset?”

“What? No,” Thomas said, shaking his head and wiping again at his face. “I came in to see the place and… I saw things had been moved around. I know George has been here, he has a key. I wish I was brave enough to ask him for it back… But, later.”

“Yes, later,” York agreed. “Don’t get stressed out thinking about it again. Tell me what you want to tell me. About this.” He touched the strap of the dress with one hand, feeling the soft material over the cool skin of Thomas’ shoulder.

“You might as well…” Thomas sighed. He placed his hands in his lap, tilting his face down so he didn’t have to make eye contact. “Carol was more than a sister to me, York,” he said sadly. “She was an inspiration. She was so confident, and bold. I always wanted to be like that. I always wanted to be like her. She was… everything I wasn’t.”

“All right,” York said. He could already tell where this confession was going.

“I just started out… wanting to be more like her,” Thomas said weakly. “I’m sure it was nothing, nothing at first. I tried to act like her. I wanted some of her confidence to rub off on me. I thought no-one could push Carol around, and… well. Everyone always… pushes me around.”

“And then…?” York gently prodded.

“Then I don’t remember, exactly…” Thomas mumbled. “Dressing like her seemed… like the next step. I told myself I was just learning to be more like her. And I did start to feel more confident. I started to feel better in a lot of ways, actually. Eventually it stopped being about Carol. It’s about me. It always was, I just… didn’t realise that.” He sighed loudly, emptying his lungs with a high-pitched, tired exclamation. “Is it? I don’t know. I don’t know! The first person I told about it was George, and he just used it against me! He held it over my head like there was something wrong with me!”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Thomas, that much is certain,” York said gently. “Whatever George told you, or did, that was what was wrong.” Ushah looked across at him with an appreciative smile on his face.

“He told me I was twisted!” Thomas shouted. “He told me I was all twisted up! I hate him! I hate what he did! He made me feel like I wasn’t as good as Carol, and he made her feel like she wasn’t as good as Emily. We were both good! We were both good, York. We were.”

“Thomas, you don’t have to convince me,” York assured him. “George is the problem. He was always the problem. You don’t have to try and impress him anymore, it’s over.”

“And you don’t have to live in Carol’s shadow anymore, either,” Ushah added. There was some spite to it, York thought. Thomas clearly agreed, because he turned to face Ushah with a scowl.

“Stop it!” Thomas shouted. “You can’t say that about her, it wasn’t her fault! She never made me feel bad. She never made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, it was him! It was all _him_! You need to understand that. You _have_ to understand it!”

“Fine, fine,” Ushah muttered. “You know I just want what’s best for you. I have since the beginning.”

“Then don’t you dare lash out at my sister after everything that happened to her,” Thomas snapped. “She was the best thing in my life. I still… don’t know how I’m going to get through this without her. Carol was the strong one. She was everything… everything I’m not.”

“You just need time,” York said. “If you give yourself some time to figure this out, away from George, you’ll get there, Thomas. I can see you’re struggling, but… you’ll make it through.”

“Thank you, York,” Thomas said. He wiped again at his cheek, smudging a black line across his face with his thumb. “It’s not been easy. I wish I could have talked it through more with Carol, before she died. I should have trusted her. I know she knew, but… she was waiting for me to talk about it. And I never knew what to say.”

“I’m sure she would have helped you in any way she could,” York said. “She was a fierce person. Carol was very protective of you, wasn’t she?” It was a guess, really. If he was going purely on what he had seen of Carol himself, and what Ushah had said, he’d be forced to conclude that Carol put herself first and left her older brother in the lurch. It was what Thomas and, unfortunately, George had said about the guarded young woman that tipped him off to the real truth. Carol had loved Thomas just as much as he had loved her. She would have hated to see him now, crying in her dressing room, desolate over her loss.

“She was,” Thomas stammered, his voice dissolving into tears once more. “She didn’t want me to get hurt. It was so hard for us both. We both… we loved… we both loved George. He made us love him! There was nothing we could do, there was no way out! We loved him, and he never loved us properly. He only wanted… he wanted…”

“Emily,” York breathed. He felt a wave of anger rising up inside him, at the slight possibility, the alternate path in which George had managed to bring Emily into his possession. It horrified him. What horrified him more, was the thought of what he’d be willing to do to save her from it.

“It wasn’t fair,” Thomas moaned. “Carol tried so hard to be better… so did I. We never could be. She tried so hard. She did everything he wanted. She even –” At that point, Thomas cut himself off.

“She did what, Thomas?” York pressed. “What did Carol do? Whatever it was, I understand. I know it wasn’t her fault.”

“He wanted to own us,” Thomas murmured. “He wanted to own everyone he could. That’s why he treated me the way he did. Because he could get away with it. I let him –”

“You didn’t let him, Thomas,” York interrupted.

“I let him!” Thomas repeated. “And I let him use Carol. I was her big brother. I should have stopped him. I let him…”

“No,” York insisted. “You couldn’t have stopped him. You could never have stopped him. He took advantage of you both. What George has done, he will pay for. Believe me, Thomas, by the end of this investigation, I want to make sure George pays for what he’s done to you.”

“It’s his fault she died,” Thomas cried. “I know it is… I know it is…”

“Thomas, York is right,” Ushah said soothingly. “George is not going to get away from this without being punished for what he did.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Thomas cried. “The way he used Carol. He made her do horrible things. I know, in time, she wouldn’t have been able to cope with it. She tried to tell herself she wanted to do it as well, that it was her idea, but what she almost did… I knew my sister, and she wasn’t a bad person. If things had carried on the way they were going, I don’t know if she would have been able to live with herself. I didn’t want it to happen. I’m so glad it stopped.”

“Yes, it’s over,” York agreed. “It’s all over now. You won’t have to see George again.”

“She didn’t mean it,” Thomas said, in a small voice. “She didn’t mean any of it. I know she was sorry, even if she never said it.”

“It’s okay now, Thomas,” Ushah said. “Come on. It’s all right.” Thomas got up, cutting a brilliant silhouette in the red dress that twirled around him as he stood. At his height, with his slim figure, he had a real elegance. York wasn’t surprised that he felt more confident in this, than in the police uniform George had handed him so long ago. He was freer. It suited him, all of it. Thomas went to Ushah, who got up to meet him. They held each other and Ushah softly kissed the top of Thomas’ head. York noticed he had to lean onto his tiptoes to do it, and he smiled.

“I want to go home,” Thomas sighed. “I’ll get changed, then I want to go home.” Ushah nodded, and was about to give him the room, but York stepped back into the conversation. He had one last thing to bring up before he could leave Thomas be.

“Thomas,” York asked. “Do you know if Carol kept any keys to anywhere other than her apartment, her car, and the doors here?”

“What?” Thomas asked sharply. “Keys? Why would I know that?”

“You were close, I only wondered,” York said, holding up a hand to diffuse the sudden discomfort. “I found an odd key with some of her things, and I wondered what it might open.”

“You went into her apartment?” Thomas gasped. He looked horrified.

“No, it was in her car,” York lied. “Here, I have it.” He removed the key he’d found hidden in the dressing table from his jacket pocket and held it up. Thomas stared at it, his eyes twitching slightly.

“No… I can’t tell you,” Thomas said. “I mean I don’t know! I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” York said, returning the key to his pocket. He wasn’t entirely pleased that Thomas was lying to him, and not very convincingly at that, but he wouldn’t push him about it for now. Not while he was vulnerable. York left the dressing room with Ushah to give Thomas time to change in peace.

“Thomas’ secret is out, then,” Ushah said when they were alone. “Thank you for being good about that, Agent York.”

“Of course, Ushah. Why wouldn’t I be?” York asked. Ushah considered him for a moment, then shook his head, grinning.

“You honestly don’t see why you might not, do you?” he said, stunned. “You’re a good man, York. There’s something special about you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Ushah,” York said, smiling. “I try to see the best in people.”

“Well you succeed at that,” Ushah laughed. He took a moment to collect himself, then looked back at York with a more serious expression. “Really, thank you. Thomas might take a while to work things out, figure out what he wants to do, and be, but it’s good to know he’s got people around who’ll be there while he does it.”

“I should be telling you the same thing,” York countered. Ushah laughed again and slapped York on the back.

“Aren’t we just a couple of good guys, huh?” he said. York certainly hoped so. He just hoped that good intentions would be enough. There were certainly a lot of bad intentions in Greenvale right now, and it was going to take more than a little good will to overwhelm the people harbouring them. York hoped he had the power to do it.


	41. Shooting Gallery

Chapter Forty-One. [ Shooting Gallery ]

With the situation with Thomas defused, York left Ushah alone. It was too early for lunch, but York wanted something after the emotional experience he’d just been part of. He decided to head over to the Milk Barn and get something light to tide him over. The drive over was quick. It seemed that most people were still in bed after last night’s storm. It occurred to York that he still hadn’t seen Emily this morning. He wondered what it would be like when he did. Would everything be the same as before, or would this new context change things, falling over their interactions like a cloud?

The Milk Barn was open, he was glad to see. When he went inside, it was clear he was the only customer. Keith saw him and waved him over immediately.

“Hey there, brah!” he said cheerfully. “How’s my favourite FBI guy today?”

“I’m well, Keith,” York answered. “Where is the rest of the family?”

“Oh, like, my juniors got stuck up with Jim last night at the cabin,” Keith informed him. “Lilly’s gonna head up there soon and get them. Opened up on my own today. Not a big deal, cause you’re our first visitor today, FBI! What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a bar of chocolate and some coffee if there is any, Keith,” York said. Keith nodded vaguely and got up from his chair. York waited by the counter, reading one of the posters hanging on the wall and marvelling again at the idea of paying to see Keith perform. He expected the audience would have to sit through several pauses in the performance for anecdotes. When Keith returned, it was with York’s snack and a poorly poured cup of coffee which York took without a fuss.

“You getting anywhere with this killer dude?” Keith asked, as York sipped the coffee. “I just think, maybe, if you can’t get him, maybe he’s done killing? What do you think, FBI?”

“I’m not so sure,” York said. “I have a theory.”

“A theory? Share it, man!” Keith said excitedly. York hated to let such enthusiasm down.

“I can’t tell you anything, Keith, not until we have the killer in custody,” York reminded him. Keith’s face fell, as he realised he wasn’t going to be the first to hear who the killer was.

“Ah man, that blows. I super need to know. The suspense is killing me!”

“Not as much as it’s killing the victims, Keith,” York said dryly. Keith laughed, as if it had been a joke. York wondered what exactly it took for Keith to take something seriously. He supposed it would at least prevent the Ingram twins from getting too upset. If they never realised that what was happening wasn’t just a game, then it couldn’t affect them much.

“Listen, FBI, just tell me when you can, all right?” Keith said. “Lilly is majorly worried about it all. She keeps saying that someone else is gonna die, so we gotta be vigilante. I’m more about going with the flow. I say we can’t stop this killer ourselves. That’s your job, right?”

“Yes, thank you, Keith. It is,” York sighed. He supposed it wasn’t fair to wish the people of Greenvale would stop pressuring him. He was, after all, the one responsible for catching the Raincoat Killer. It just didn’t exactly help him relax about it all.

“Hey, you remember that story I told you,” Keith said suddenly. “About those two dead kids over at the art gallery?”

“Yes, I remember,” York said. The image of the girl hanging down from the balcony was one he couldn’t completely get out of his head.

“I was thinking, like…” Keith began. “What if Quint and Carol come back like that? What if you go to the Swery 65 and Quint’s just, like, he’s there! Mopping up and playing darts like before, but he’s dead? And Carol’s over at the Galaxy of Terror, and she’s like this figment there to scare the shit out of you? Like in the movie!”

“Then I suppose Greenvale’s nightlife would suffer,” York said, smirking to himself.

“Yeah, brah, yeah!” Keith agreed. York thought it was funny that when he had actually made a joke, Keith acted as if his observation was deadly serious. “I wonder what it was like for those two… at the art gallery, I mean. No-one came to help them. I guess that’s the same with Quint and Carol though, right? No-one came to help them either. Now they’re all just… dead.”

“Yes…” York said slowly.

“And that dead babe’s dad, too,” Keith went on. “Do you think he knew why her boy candy offed him? Do you think he told him, like, this is cause you locked your daughter up, she died cause of you, and you’re gonna die cause of her? That’s so huge, FBI! I wish I could go and find those ghosties and ask them myself. I’ve been over to the art gallery before, but I’ve never seen them. Just like… loads of trees. Diane sure likes those tree paintings.”

“It’s an interesting story,” York agreed sceptically. He didn’t particularly want Keith to recount the whole urban legend again. Hearing it once had been enough, especially during the murder investigation. He had told himself that the story of the girl who accidentally hanged herself, and the boyfriend who avenged her death by killing her overbearing father, wasn’t true. He didn’t want to have to think about it again. Ghosts were the last thing he wanted to consider right now.

“Anyway, FBI, I hope for their sakes that Carol and Quint don’t end up haunting their bars,” Keith said, ignoring the mood completely. “That’d be like, so depressing after a while, don’t you think? Watching all these happy people come and go, having a good time, and you’re just dead. At least at the art gallery, you’re never seeing much happiness pass you by. It’s all cold and stiff over there.”

“I suppose it is,” York agreed. “And quiet.”

“Quiet, out of the way, kind of sinister,” Keith laughed. “A couple of ghosts would fit right in, don’t you think? No wonder no-one came looking for that babe there. You could hide anything in a place like that, right?”

“Yes…” York said slowly. “I suppose you could.”

“Well, good luck finding the killer, FBI,” Keith said. “We’re all rooting for you.”

“Thank you, Keith,” York said. “I’m going to get back to work on that right now.”

♦ ♦ ♦

As York drove, it started to rain again. Clearly the storm wasn’t finished with Greenvale. It got worse and worse until, as he reached the art gallery, it was pouring down in thick, icy sheets. You could barely tell it was meant to be summer. York had to run to the door.

“Zach, it’s like we’re walking in a swimming pool!” York joked to himself. “I can see why our killer wears a raincoat. They’re more prepared than we are.” Even if it wasn’t what he had meant, the idea that the killer was more prepared than him smacked him in the chest. York tried to recover, but his mood was spoiled. He still didn’t have enough to catch this monster. Hopefully, after today, he would be a little closer. York touched the gallery door, and it turned inwards. Diane hadn’t locked it when it started to rain. Just as well, he thought. For once, he didn’t want to knock.

Inside, the gallery was the same as ever. Dark, cold, and empty. The large pointed sculpture that greeted guests sat silently, welcoming him in. In a town with such a small population, it was hard to imagine there were many visitors. York could picture the gallery as it was most days. Exactly like this. A ghost town.

“Let’s hope that isn’t literal, Zach,” York mumbled. He knew that Diane’s rooms were at the back of the gallery, but before he went to say hello, he intended to look around. He picked one of the rooms off the main hall at random to explore. As he walked over to the door, his eyes naturally fell on the balcony overlooking the entrance, and he shuddered.

“Keith doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Zach,” York assured himself. “That story can’t be true. If nothing else, wouldn’t a murder suicide like that be public knowledge?” That was what he was telling himself. He already had Carol and Quint bothering him in dreams, the last thing he needed was to be responsible for people who had died before he was even born.

The gallery was a maze of paintings. It quickly began to feel like walking through a real forest, lined with trees, and York realised he would get nothing out of it. Keith’s story remained in his head, growing louder and more persistent in his thoughts, as he returned to the door leading back to the entrance hall. As he stepped through it, he realised things were going from bad to worse today.

There was a haze throughout the room, and the floor appeared to be slanted and crooked to the eye. He knew what was coming. Sure enough, a moment later, the first of them appeared. The creature peeled itself away from the shadow of the wall and shuddered toward him on fizzing legs. The white arms and face stood out against the dark, lightless background. Now York really felt as if he’d walked into a forest. The only shapes he could make out on the gallery walls were the bright branches of painted trees. The shadow moved closer, and York reflexively reached for his gun, before remembering where he was.

“We can’t shoot it, Zach,” York sighed, hands shaking. “Diane would hear us. Not to mention, we’d have a lot of questions to answer. We have to find another way.” He was glad there was only one of them. So far.

York glanced around desperately, his eyes finally settling on a metal pole attached to a rope, used as a divider. He grabbed it as the figment closed in on him. As its buzzing, chalky fingers stretched through the air towards him, he thrust the pole forward and through the creature’s centre. Its head fell downward as if in shock, and it began to melt, slowly, like cream. It pooled onto the floor then vanished, dripping away into the ground. It was gone. York clutched the pole tightly. He had no intention of dropping it now.

As he rounded the corner, he saw something rather more disturbing than the shadow creatures. The sculpture that was the jewel of the entrance hall, some sort of modernist wooden tree by day, seemed to be twitching and alive. York stood before it, watching in horror as the wood squirmed into life.

“Zach, tell me statues don’t move,” York breathed. At least it didn’t seem keen to drag itself out of the ground and come for him. But the way the branches shifted and stretched, reaching forward like hands, didn’t make him feel much better. He had to walk past it. As he crept closer, keeping his eyes focused firmly on the once-wooden tree, he saw branches unfurling outwards, in his direction. For a second, he almost expected it to offer to shake hands. The branch closest to him uncoiled like a flower to reveal a wet, red clump. The moist shape dripped its gelatinous contents onto the floor at his feet, and he jumped backwards.

“Jam,” York sighed bluntly. He looked back at the branch, and could make out the vague outlines of the bread and meat of the sandwich. “I can’t get away from it, Zach,” he mumbled. “This isn’t the way lunch normally comes back to haunt you.”

As another mouthful of jam and meat spilled over the edge of the branch, York saw the faint, glistening shapes within. The jam splattered like a broken skull over the ground. The red seeds became more visible as it scattered. York laughed numbly at the sight of it. Seeded jam.

“Remind me not to order another one anytime soon, Zach,” York said, sucking in unhappy breaths between laughs. “Metaphor or not, I think I’ve changed my mind about that sandwich.” There came a low groaning as he finished speaking, and he saw crisp white fingers twisting around the branches from behind the statue. Another shadow.

York clenched his hands around the pole he had defended himself with before. He waited for the figment to get close enough to dispose of, watched it step clumsily around the tree statue as if it was too drunk to be able to tell where it was going. Then, in a moment, it tilted its eyeless face towards him and leapt forward with motionless legs, suddenly mere inches from his chest. York reacted on instinct, dashing for the nearby stairs and running from the creature before it could reach for him. When he looked back, he saw it wandering aimlessly around the ground floor, having completely forgotten about his existence. He breathed out. He may have rushed his judgement.

“We’ll have to keep our head in case the next person to jump out at us is our killer, Zach,” York muttered. He didn’t think things were going that way. If the Raincoat Killer was the type to spring a sneak attack on him personally, then he expected they would already have done so. York glanced around and his heart sunk. He realised where he was.

The balcony.

“Keith made that story up, Zach,” York repeated again. “No-one died here. No-one.” But it was not so easy to quiet the doubting, persistent voice in his head. Stranger things had happened. Stranger things today, even. York could not keep himself from imagining the girl, hanging over the edge of the balcony, her horrified lover staring on from below. He could almost picture her face in his mind. Every freckle and eyelash in its place, forever.

“No,” York groaned. He screwed his eyes shut, willing the image to leave him. He bashed his hands against his temples in the vain hope it would just dissipate. Then, he heard a low, tremulous sound. At first, almost impossible to distinguish from the ringing in his ears and the background hum of the gallery, it slowly rose above the rest, becoming clearer. Giggling. York snapped his eyes open. They were here. Standing ahead of him, hand in hand. The figments, not ghosts, definitely not ghosts, that Keith had been so desperate to meet. Well, York thought, wasn’t he the special one.

The boy seemed normal enough, despite his mild transparency and old-fashioned clothes. His faded features were typical of a teenage boy of any era, no more off-putting for being unnaturally pallid. But the girl. The girl. Her face shimmered blue, with blotches stretching down towards an ugly purple stain looped around her neck. The strangle mark of the rope she had erroneously hung herself with, over the very balcony on which they all now stood. Her long dress faded into the floor, like seafoam on a beach. Her hair dripped forward listlessly over her shoulders and it was hard for York to see her as the beauty Keith had described.

“Neither of you are real,” York said firmly. “Even if that story was true, you would both be long dead. You are dead. I mean, you would be, if you were real. And you aren’t. You’re just characters from a story made up to distract people from what they’re paying for tinned pickles.”

The couple did not seem to agree with him. They giggled to themselves, eyes narrow and twisted with amusement. Their hands squeezed tighter around each other, as if they were afraid that letting go meant disappearing. Their faces turned towards each other and they kissed, blending into each other unpleasantly with the same texture as the clumsy brushstrokes on the paintings around them. When they emerged, they exchanged a conspiratorial glance, then turned to face York, smiles rising on their faint, translucent faces.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” York said coldly. As long as they remained in front of him, he may as well address the two figments as if they were who they were dressed up as. “It was unfair. A cruel expression of the randomly sick world we live in. I know plenty about that. But you can’t do this! You can’t expect me to do anything for you. What do you want? Sympathy? Revenge? If you were really ghosts, you’d have had enough time by now to realise that isn’t what you need. Just go.” He swallowed at the lump in his throat. “Go away now.”

The girl stepped towards him, feet invisible under the soiled edge of the dress which insisted on blending into the ground below her. There was certainly no mistaking either of them for lost gallery patrons. Their unreality was garishly obvious.

“Don’t know what are?” she said in that same hazy, dreamy speech he recognised from his dreams. “Reflection truth you no know only. Don’t see? No have rush!” The word salad stung with an unusual vigour, as he was hearing it out in the real world. Mostly. The real real world didn’t have a lot of sentient trees, as far as he knew. When she was done, her partner stepped forwards as well, fixing York with a cocked smile that showed a hint of teeth.

“Not have yet,” he recited in a rising sing-song. “Answer? Same make more time. They make. Us have again for to be. You not have. Us only leave. Soon will have. Every answer aware to be.”

“What does that mean?” York snapped, desperately trying to translate the jumbled speech even as he wondered why he was bothering. How this bizarre vision was meant to help him with anything, he couldn’t understand. This was punishment, whether it came from his frightened, fried brain or some presence outside of himself. Neither scenario was comforting. What he wouldn’t accept was that he was dealing with the ghosts of two dead teenagers who were eager to help in his investigation.

Very quickly, he was proven right on the last front.

The couple, giggling to themselves as before, eased closer still. They never let go of the other’s hand. United as one single, un-living organism. Before York realised what was happening, they circled around him, arms closing in a circle and locking him in. They shook their arms upwards, bouncing up and down together, until he was almost expecting them to begin the chorus of Oranges and Lemons, ready to snap their hands down on his neck as he tried to scrabble to escape the circle. As such, he forced himself to stay still, trying to ignore the dancing figments which he told himself, again, were not real. These were no-one’s memories, just jumbled legends come alive from his paranoid fear.

“If it wasn’t so dark and stormy outside, I doubt you’d have the courage to be here,” he muttered. The ghostly couple ignored him, entertained by their game, too pre-occupied to listen. They spun around and around him, parts sticking and jumping inconsistently like bad television reception. At least they had given up the pretence of helping him, if that was indeed what their earlier statements had been. When they finally slowed, the girl was facing him head on.

“Never save, never save!” she laughed breathlessly, hysterically, as if she was telling him the funniest joke she’d ever heard. “We never be save!”

“I know that,” York said coolly. “But who was meant to save you from that accident? It was random.”

“I never save self never can either!” she continued, the smile she was wearing distractingly inappropriate. “Many mistake, make!”

“It wasn’t your fault,” York added, uncomfortable that he found himself comforting this giggling spectre. “The rope slipped. You just didn’t get out in time.”

“Next time!” she wailed with laughter, the sound so high-pitched and loud York was amazed he was the only one who heard it. “There next time will have for difference!” As the words left her mouth, she leant backwards into the air and spun again, shrieking in amusement as she circled around and away, the boy planting himself in front of York next, grounding his heels unconvincingly as he landed.

“No more ropes,” he said, staring up at York. His voice was darker than hers. Where she seemed to feel nothing but fun, despite her unlucky death being the topic of conversation, he had some awareness she lacked. Some additional grasp of reality. York shivered at the thought.

“What?” he asked. The boy nodded his head.

“No rope, no more,” he said again. “We go free. Never have ever again.”

“Get away from me!” York snapped suddenly, wanting it to end. He reached for the pole he had been holding, only to realise he had accidentally abandoned it on the stairs during his attempt to run from the last shadow. He hadn’t even noticed. That said a lot about how self-aware he was in this moment. He waved at the two figures, who laughed and bounced around him, their movements stilted, their bodies vanishing at the edges into the air around them.

“This time! This time!” They cried out, one or both of them, it all blended together. As York watched, they moved faster and faster, their fingers blending into one another until their arms were just one long conjoined snake from shoulder to shoulder. They were dancing, York thought. Not in the gentle, sad way that Keith had pictured. They were not at all the romantic spirits Keith had first described, resigned to their afterlife, quietly enjoying the final pleasure of each other’s company. They were manic, angry abominations who had no intention of resting in peace. York had closed his eyes again as his mind wandered, but the sound of them cutting through the air as they spun and their mingled laughter was still ringing through his head. The two of them were playing with him. If he didn’t do something, they would never let him go.

“Zach, you’re with me, aren’t you?” York whispered. When he opened his eyes again, he was determined to end this. The blurred faces of the two lovers sped past him again and again as they danced round and round in their circle. York reached for his gun. He knew he couldn’t fire at either of them. The noise would draw attention, and the last thing he wanted was to be kicked out of Greenvale for something as foolish as firing a gun indoors. Instead he jerked his arm forward, crossing into the dancers’ circle. The reaction was instant. The boy, who had been facing him when he reached out, stood quivering and jittering as the gun barrel jutted through his forehead. York twitched the gun in a pantomime of firing, and the boy wailed through a mouth that was no longer visible. He crumpled, leaving behind nothing but a blazer on the ground. He was gone. York turned at once on the girl, who stood paralyzed with her arms raised in shock.

“You need to go,” York said firmly.

“Not gonna make it,” she replied, teasingly. “Not gonna.”

“Next time, stay out of sight,” York said coldly. “Unless Keith Ingram comes by. He’d love to meet you.” He repeated his gesture, faking the firing of the gun at the figment. She dropped her arms, the limbs disappearing as they fell, the rest of her following quickly behind. Her eyes were the last thing left, for a split second, staring back at him without a hint of surrender. York looked around, checking everywhere. They were all gone. There was not a trace of them left. He patted his pocket, reaching for his cigarettes, and taking one out.

“I hope those are the last ones we have to deal with today, Zach,” he muttered. “I’m getting tired, and it’s still early.” Eager to leave the eerie balcony behind, York hurried back down the stairs. The shadow who had been there before had long since vanished, the statue of the tree barely twitched as he ran past. The inside of the gallery was still dark and claustrophobic, and he had no doubt that it wasn’t done with him yet. If he didn’t get through it soon, there would be more figments, more twisting branches come to life, more challenges ahead.

In the darkness, it was hard to tell where he was going. The gallery was not designed with convenience in mind on the nicest of days, so in his agitation and the low light brought on by the storm, it was not surprising he found himself wandering, lost, through the halls. He opened doors, he considered row after row of paintings, of stiff dead trees, with no end in sight. He could no longer remember what he had been looking for, if he had been looking for something, something to tie things together. That time seemed long ago. He just wanted things to be over, to see daylight again.

York continued through room after room, retracing his steps and getting turned around. He pushed on, pushed ahead, panic rising in his throat at the thought that he might never find his way out, never leave. It was illogical, he tried to tell himself. He was only lost because he was panicking. Yet the idea that the doomed lovers, or any of the other less-established figments, might return at any moment, box him in, screaming with dead laughter and knowing now that he couldn’t protect himself, only panicked him further. He stumbled forward, reaching for another door and forcing it open, hoping this one would offer something new.

Behind the door, highlighted in the centre of the room as if under a spotlight, he saw limbs curling around each other like ivy round a tree trunk. An arm reached out to settle its hand in the small of another’s back. Fingers dug into the dark material of stockings, needily, tugging at the limb. As it dawned on York where he was, as the loud gasp that crossed the room towards him faded, and as the intermingled bodies slowly pulled apart and turned back into two, York finally understood. A fog lifted. Not just the haze he had wandered through the gallery in, but the fog of questions he had had swimming around in his head for days. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense.

“Diane,” York said politely, as if she had invited him into her home, rather than the reality of him barging in in a stupor. “Olivia.” The two of them looked back at him. Olivia’s face was twisted and terrified, her mouth hanging open in horror. Diane simply smiled.


	42. The Art of Romance

Chapter Forty-Two. [ The Art of Romance ]

A few moments later, the three of them were sitting down. Diane and York opposite each other, with Olivia to the side, as far away as she could be without physically leaving the situation. Diane was still smiling to herself, as dreamily as ever, as if York’s frantic interruption hadn’t happened. York was taking his time before speaking. He wanted to get this right.

“So, Diane,” he said at last. “I think it’s obvious what’s happening here, but I wonder if you’d like to clarify it. Just to be sure we all understand.” Diane’s smile grew, clouding her whole face with a special, personal malice. Only she could mix so much malevolence into what should be a welcoming expression.

“I don’t see how any of this is relevant to your investigation, Agent,” she said.

“As Olivia may have told you, this personal drama has distracted me from better leads,” York said coldly, his mouth a stern line. “If Olivia had told me what was happening, or if you had, or Nick! I assume he knows, too. If any of you had thought to fill me in, instead of acting as suspiciously as possible, then I could have laid a lot of concerns to rest earlier and moved on.”

“Moved on to what?” Diane asked playfully. “I assume you still don’t know who killed my baby sister’s boyfriend, and you have no real leads. All this ‘personal drama’, as you called it, has done, is give you something to occupy your time while you flounder looking for a killer who consistently outsmarts you.” York was stunned for several seconds. Diane, he noticed again, did not care in the least about seeming innocent before a federal agent. It was impressive, in a way.

“Don’t antagonise him, please,” Olivia squeaked. York turned to her.

“Olivia, you tell me,” he said. “I apologise for accusing you recently. I was only trying to… shake the tree to see what fell out.” Like the rest of the gallery, Diane’s rooms were populated by paintings of trees. York tried to refrain from smiling at his own weak joke.

“Oh! All right, well…” Olivia said nervously. “Should I… start at the beginning?” She looked over at Diane for approval.

“It’s your story, Olivia. Tell him whatever you want to,” Diane reasoned.

“Okay,” Olivia sighed. She was unable to quite look York in the eye, instead glancing between the floor, and a spot slightly beside his head. “I suppose everything started when Nick and I began to… drift apart.” That, York thought, was going to turn out to be an understatement. “He was spending more time alone, painting. He said it made him happy. I don’t know anything about art, really, and I couldn’t be part of it.”

“Not that he tried to include you,” Diane added.

“He… well,” Olivia went on. “Then he began going over to the art gallery. At first it was to look at the paintings, but then he started spending more and more time with Diane. They became close.”

“Yes,” York said, butting in. “Diane, Nick was a good friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” Diane agreed. “I would have been happy for him to stay a close friend of mine, but that’s since become unlikely.”

“I didn’t mind!” Olivia piped in. “I was happy for him to have a friend he could talk to about art, but at some point I started to think it might be… more than that.”

“You mean,” York said. “That you suspected Nick was having an affair with Diane?” Olivia nodded. “Well, how fortunate that you were wrong. I’m sure that would have hurt your marriage,” he added sarcastically. Olivia pouted her lip, unamused.

“I thought he was having an affair with Diane, because he would go out and come back at different times to when he’d said, and he’d never be where he claimed he was going to be,” she went on. “It really seemed like that was what was happening. I tried to talk to him about it, but he didn’t want to listen. He was angry that I was accusing him of something, even though I never actually spelled it out that way. I didn’t ask him if he was having an affair. He knew that was what I thought though… talking to him became impossible, and he spent more and more time away from home. With Diane. For a while, I basically only saw him at work. He’d come back home after I went to bed. We barely talked!” She covered her face with her hands. “It was horrible!”

“And so you decided to even the experience?” York asked.

“No!” Olivia gasped. “Not at all, that isn’t what happened!”

“Let me, ‘Livia,” Diane said suddenly, reaching across to briefly tap the arm of Olivia’s chair. She rounded on York. “Nick was my best friend,” she said firmly. “At the time. I suppose you’ll find it obvious when I say some people find me cold. I don’t exactly encourage friendship. Nick and I were able to become good friends because of our common interest in art.”

“Not your common interest in Olivia?” York suggested. Diane did not react to the bait.

“No,” she said. “At the time, I didn’t know anything much about the problems facing Nick and Olivia’s marriage. To be more accurate, I knew there were problems, but Nick was vague. He certainly didn’t tell me then that Olivia thought we were sleeping together. Otherwise, I may have wanted to correct the idea.”

“Why?” York asked. “Forgive me, Diane, but you seem like the kind of woman who’s confident in her sexuality. You certainly don’t seem like the type to care about rumours.”

“And I’m not,” Diane agreed. “If Nick was a single man, then I doubt I would have cared what people thought about us. I suppose, on some level, it’s irritating to be thought of as someone who can’t have a simple friendship with a man without it becoming something else, but as you said. I’m not really the type to care about the rumours other people spread. Or what other people think. It’s quite simple. I wouldn’t have wanted Olivia to get hurt.”

“That’s surprisingly sensitive of you, Diane,” York said. “Perhaps I misjudged you.” He didn’t, however, really believe that.

“You know,” Diane said dreamily. “I don’t particularly believe in attachment. Some people are obsessed with it. Some people want people to belong to them. I’m not a stranger to the problems that can cause. Why, not long ago, I had a visitor here who demanded I stop my association with a man they thought was theirs. A single man. I wasn’t quite as sensitive then, Agent.”

“And who was that?” York asked.

“You overheard me speaking to the sheriff,” Diane said. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” York thought for a moment before realising who she was talking about.

“Carol?” he said. “Carol came to tell you to stop seeing George?” Diane had managed to surprise him again, with her casual admittance that she’d fought with one of the murder victims. He wondered if she’d ever run out of surprises.

“I’m sure I don’t remember,” Diane said, smiling darkly. “That might be it.”

“Then why would it be different with Olivia and Nick?” York asked, irritated.

“Because the sheriff is a single man, and both I and the other person involved were single women. None of us have any claim over each other,” Diane explained. “Olivia is married to Nick, and she doesn’t deserve to be unhappy because of her husband’s choices.”

“But I see that neither of you are extending the same courtesy to Nick,” York said. Olivia twitched unhappily at the reminder, but Diane was unmoved.

“No, I suppose we’re not,” she said. “Perhaps if Nick had been more respectful of Olivia, I would feel guiltier about that.”

“I doubt that, Diane,” York said coolly. “So how exactly did it begin, between the two of you? So far, you’ve just told me that Olivia suspected her husband of cheating with you. That hardly seems like a good basis for a friendship, let alone a relationship.”

“I began… I wanted to know the truth,” Olivia said. “I tried to follow Nick when he came to the art gallery one night. He’d said they were just going out for drinks, and he’d lied. I watched him go inside with Diane. I thought for sure I was right after all. He came home so late… and he didn’t say a thing. The next day, I went to the art gallery myself. I wanted to look Diane in the eye at least. To see if she felt guilty for… well… for that.”

“Yes,” Diane said. “That.”

“I was only there for a few minutes and I already wanted to back down,” Olivia said weakly. “It seemed petty, what I was doing, and I don’t like confrontation. Diane… saw me there. Before I could leave. She came over to talk to me.”

“And how exactly did your confrontation play out?” York asked.

“There wasn’t one,” Diane said quickly. Olivia glanced at her before carrying on.

“No, there wasn’t,” she agreed. “I tried to act as if I was just there to look at the art, but I wasn’t very convincing. Apparently, there are better places in Greenvale to go and look at trees.” She smiled shyly at the memory. “So we talked.”

“You talked?” York asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

“Yes, Agent, we did,” Diane confirmed coolly. “Olivia was desperate for someone to talk to, anyone could have seen that. Nick should have seen it himself. If he’d wanted to. But he didn’t, and that’s his mistake. His loss. He brought this on himself.”

“Nick brought this on himself?” York repeated. “By befriending you, Diane, and staying out all night? Then I’m sure better men than me have brought things on themselves, too.”

“No,” Diane said patiently. “Not that. If you had seen how distressed Olivia was, and how desperate for someone to listen to her, then you would agree that Nick’s mistakes are what brought us here.” She leant forward, as if letting York in on a secret. “Olivia almost collapsed in my arms when I told her nothing had happened between Nick and I. She was so relieved, that she almost couldn’t stand. That, Agent, is not the act of a happy woman. This was more than just a missed appointment or two. Nick had Olivia so worked up, I was surprised she didn’t come into the gallery with a knife and try to take a woman’s revenge directly.”

“Would that have been all right, if she did?” York asked Diane, in the same hushed, conspiratorial way. “Would that have been Nick’s fault too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Diane said smoothly, straightening her back, returning to before. “No such thing happened. Olivia is far too good for those kind of dark thoughts.” If only everyone was, York thought bitterly.

“Diane was such a good friend,” Olivia butted in. “I don’t really… it’s difficult. I work a lot, and I don’t really think many people like me.”

“No-one dislikes you, ‘Livia,” Diane added quickly.

“But I don’t have many people I can talk to,” Olivia finished. “Nick and I, for a long time, were all the other had. It was upsetting when I lost that. Especially how it happened. So I, I appreciated Diane. I appreciated that she was there for me.”

“And then?” York asked.

“And then, things happened as they always do,” Diane said plainly. “I’m afraid you don’t need to know any of the… finer details. You’ll have to entertain yourself some other way.” York stared blankly at her.

“I don’t find this kind of thing entertaining at all,” he said, missing the point. Olivia, unlike herself, giggled. A second later, she coughed, and bit her lip, as if trying to hide the sound after it had already come out.

“Things haven’t gone smoothly,” Diane said, carrying on. “Nick, at some point, perhaps recognising his own bad behaviours reflected in his wife, started to suspect something was going on. He’s been following me, or her, or both of us. He knows, essentially, not that either of us has been particularly forthcoming with confirmations. I expect it’s driving him mad.” She smiled to herself. Meanly, York thought. She was pleased.

“I don’t want to hurt Nick,” Olivia assured guiltily. “But things… things have happened.”

“Yes, things do tend to happen when you let them,” York said. Olivia flushed and looked away. Her guilt was in complete contrast to Diane’s pride, he thought. The two were certainly not bonded together by similarity.

“I expect he’ll keep bothering me until it comes to a head,” Diane said. “After all, he has nothing better to do.”

“No,” York agreed. “He’s lost everything.”

“Not everything,” Diane said playfully. “Just everyone. Some people expect everyone to stay where they are, frozen around them, forever, like statues. They never want to consider that those frozen figures have their own needs. And before you know it, someone moves, and it all falls apart.”

“I’m sure everything’s going to work out,” Olivia added, unconvinced. “Eventually.”

“Maybe it will,” York repeated. “Eventually.”


	43. An Appointment

Chapter Forty-Three. [ An Appointment ]

York left the gallery behind, glad to be out of there. At least the rain had stopped, for now. With the grey sky, tinged with ruddy shadows, he suspected the storm wasn’t finished for good. He shook his head as he walked to the car.

“What do you make of all this, Zach?” he asked quietly. “I have to admit, I didn’t see this one coming. Maybe I’m losing my touch?” Gentle, good-natured, and married Olivia. She would not be who he’d have pictured with Diane. Not at all. No wonder Nick had been acting out.

York drove back over to the sheriff’s department. It had already been a long day, and there was only one thing he could think of that would brighten it. Emily’s face. He hoped she would be there when he arrived. As he pulled into the parking lot, he saw her car, and he had to catch a breath.

“This is embarrassing, Zach,” he mumbled. “We’re acting like a teenager. Though maybe if we’d had some more practice as teenagers, this wouldn’t seem so daunting.” Halfway to tripping over his own feet, York hurried through the front doors of the sheriff’s department. Emily was standing in the entryway, by the desk. She was sipping a mug of coffee, hopefully not her own. She looked over at him with a soft smile and without thinking, he immediately broke into a wide, youthful grin.

“Hey there,” Emily said. “Did you not come in this morning?”

“Oh… I’ve been…” York’s gut reaction was that he was being scolded, for some reason, but he pushed past it. “I’ve been detective…ing.”

“Detective-ing?” Emily laughed. She took another slurp from her mug. “Well, what exactly did you detect, York?”

“Actually, it’s quite interesting,” York said, trying to slide back into his area of expertise. He may not be the most socially capable man in the world, but he was good at his job. Hopefully that would carry him. “I went to the art gallery. I finally have some answers about Olivia.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense!” Emily snapped excitedly. Her mug jerked to the side and York noticed a splatter of coffee streak down the side of the desk. A welcome back present for Thomas, when this case was over.

“We were misled,” York said. “Nick hasn’t been having an affair at all, but the same can’t be said for Olivia.” Emily’s eyes widened into huge, wet moons.

“Olivia…?” she gasped. “I can’t… Olivia Cormack?”

“With Diane,” York added. Emily slammed the mug down on the desk and covered her mouth with both hands in a charmingly sincere expression of surprise.

“York, are you telling the truth? How did you find out?” she asked. She was excited and frantic, interested both as a detective and as a neighbour. York remembered her saying that she didn’t trust gossip, but he supposed there was always the odd morsel too good to pass up.

“They told me. I ran into them together at the gallery,” he explained. “They were… talking.”

“Well, this is news,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I suppose it explains all those inconsistencies in Olivia’s stories. And that love bite on her neck.”

“The what?” York asked.

“Didn’t you notice it?” Emily asked, amused. “Right here,” she said, pointing to her collarbone. “I saw it a couple of times when we spoke to her. I thought it was weird, but maybe she and Nick were working things out after all. I guess not.” York remembered suddenly that he had seen a bruise on Olivia’s neck, and that he had, foolishly he now realised, asked how she’d hurt herself. He made a mental note to consider the possibility next time, to avoid another embarrassing mistake.

“Er, anyway, Emily,” York said quickly. “I was just updating you on the situation. I thought you should know what I’d found out.”

“Thank you, York, that’s –” Before she could finish speaking, the phone rang. She picked it up and pressed it to her ear, before answering. “Yes? Sheriff’s department.” York watched as her face shifted from neutral to a clouded uncertainty. She looked at him as she furrowed her brow.

“Who?” York mouthed.

“It’s… it’s Harry Stewart,” Emily said, holding out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

“You mean it’s Michael?” York asked. Emily slowly shook her head, her unhappy expression suddenly making a lot of sense. York took the phone tentatively, with a sense of impending dread. When he put it to his ear, he heard the quiet, coarse sound of breathing down the line. The sort of sound a teenage babysitter immediately hangs up on.

“Agent York.” Harry’s voice was rich and dark. Unlike that one, teasing whisper he had thrown at York the only other time he had spoken for himself, this voice assumed a certain sense of control. It was business-like, York decided. Just from the sound of it, it presupposed that he wanted something.

“Yes, Harry, this is York,” York replied. Emily stared across at him, eager to hear what was being said between them.

“I’d like you to come to the house,” Harry drawled. “Alone. We need to have a conversation.”

“What about, Harry?” York asked urgently. A small noise, that could either be Harry coughing or laughing, followed.

“Don’t be late. I am never impressed by poor timing,” Harry said. The line went dead. The call was over. York stared into the phone for a moment before replacing it.

“Well?” Emily asked. “What exactly was that about?”

“He wants to talk to me,” York said, numbly. “Alone. At his house. I… I need to leave right away.”

“Is that… is that a good idea?” Emily asked. Her concern was touching. Still, York felt if he could manage to stumble around on eggshells with George, he could handle Harry.

“What he knows, Emily, could very well open up the entire investigation,” York assured. “I’ll be fine. I need to go. I’d hate for him to change his mind if I don’t rush over there.”

“All right,” Emily begrudgingly agreed. “Well, be careful.” York looked back at her with a smile.

“Of course, Emily,” he said. “I promise.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Arriving outside the Stewart mansion today carried with it an unusual menace. Perhaps it was just the fresh memory of the twisted things he had seen in the art gallery, another grand house that could easily be associated with this one, but York was not looking forward to crossing the threshold. He knocked on the door, and when Michael opened it, his face was abnormally grey.

“Ah, Mr. Francis York Morgan,” he stammered. “You are indeed expected. It’s time your questions were no longer deflected.”

“Hello again, Michael,” York said stiffly. “Harry placed the call, but I assume you know why I’m here as well.”

“Of course,” Michael said uncomfortably. His fingers rapped against the door seemingly without his notice, and he did not make eye contact. “Mr. Stewart usually asks me to dial the phone, so… please feel welcome in our home.” Far from the impression he had given the first time they’d met, York now saw Michael as someone greatly out of his depth. Being short and slight as he was added to the image of a scared young man, rather than, York admitted to himself guiltily, a robotic answering machine, as he’d first thought him.

York followed Michael through to the dining hall, as ever. It seemed wasteful to have such a big house and never show off more than the one room. When they arrived, Harry was facing the window, staring out over the afternoon sky.

“Mr. Stewart,” Michael said, as they arrived. “Mr. Francis York Morgan is here for you. Would you like me to leave until you are through?”

“That’ll do, yes,” Harry said, in the same thick, business-like voice that York had heard over the phone. “Go to your room.” An unusual order to one’s assistant, York thought. He watched as Michael walked, almost fled, to a door off to the side, vanishing through it in an instant.

“Well, Harry,” York said firmly, unwilling to be played with, as he suspected he would be. “You have me all to yourself.”

“That I do, Agent York,” Harry laughed dryly. He drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair showing, for once, a completely free and fluid ease of movement. A moment later, he turned, spinning his chair around to face York. He looked the same as ever. The skull-like gasmask still hid his face. York wasn’t sure what he had expected.

“Tell me what you wanted to tell me,” York said coolly. He didn’t delude himself that it was going to be that easy.

“You are impatient,” Harry breathed, voice leering through the air towards York. “You must be younger than you look, to be so impatient. Don’t you understand that some things take time?”

“I do,” York said, trying to keep his own voice level. “But people are dying, Harry. Two people are dead, two _teenagers_ are dead, and you and I are both old enough to realise that more will follow if I can’t find who’s doing this soon.”

“You and I,” Harry repeated, mockingly. “Have little in common.”

“You asked me to come,” York sighed. He was already frustrated. “You must want to tell me something.” Harry waved a hand dismissively, rushed.

“I do, I assure you,” he said. “But there is an art to storytelling that I would ask you to appreciate.” York said nothing. If he had to, he was willing to play this final game with Harry, but he wouldn’t play happily. “Very well, Agent York,” Harry said. “You want to know about the Raincoat Killer. The real Raincoat Killer.” York’s fingers twitched. Harry was dangling exactly what he wanted, right in front of him. He was about to become a fish on a hook, he knew. But what could he do?

“Yes, tell me,” he insisted. Harry laughed, a cold and mechanical sound, with no real joy.

“Fifty years ago, give or take,” Harry began, taking on the impersonal tone of someone reading from a book they do not enjoy. “Something happened in this town. Something for which Greenvale was not prepared.” York waited. He had no intention of interrupting, and continuing to draw this out forever. “You’re aware of those red seeds, of course,” Harry drawled. “The ones our little town might even be infamous for. I know that, like from a cracked glass jar, they have leaked out into the world. Surely, they could be anywhere in the world by now. Growing, from those rotten trees. Fifty years is a long time indeed.”

“It is,” York agreed. “So, the red seeds are linked to the Raincoat Killer, in your eyes.”

“In my eyes?” Harry laughed. “Why, I have every intention of telling you nothing but the facts, Agent York. And as you are in such a hurry, I will not waste any more of your time. One night, fifty years ago, when I was a young man, I left my house to drive into town. Our town’s clock tower had recently been finished, and I was curious to see it. I’d watched it being built, almost every day. I was a curious young man. Perhaps, in that way, and that way alone, we are alike.”

“Perhaps,” York said coolly.

“My parents had been arguing,” Harry continued. “So I was glad to find an excuse to be away from home. It was unlike them. I don’t know what exactly they were arguing over. Isn’t it funny the questions that return to us over and over again? If nothing had happened that night, then I’m sure I wouldn’t remember that argument now at all. As it happens, I wonder constantly, the question of it nagging at me like some biting bug, what exactly they were arguing about, and whether it mattered at all to what happened later.”

York was reminded, unwelcomely, of his own nagging, unanswered questions. Of the image of his father standing over his mother’s body, with the gun, and the constant tiny voice at the back of his head that would never stop asking if maybe someone else had been there that day. If maybe it wasn’t how it seemed. Yes, York understood. He wished he didn’t.

“I went to the clock tower,” Harry continued. “There’s a way up to the top from inside the theatre, or the community centre as it is now, if you know where to look. It was late, and no-one was around, so I was easily able to sneak in and go up to the top of the tower. I felt, as I climbed those stairs, that I was on a precipice. That something was about to happen.”

“And what did happen?” York asked. Harry cocked his head, and York suspected that he might be smirking under the mask. Though it may just have been his own prejudice.

“Nothing. Nothing happened,” he said, the dark, rancid amusement clear in his voice. He had led York down a path and then wiped it away. “I was able to look out over the town from up there, and what a delightful view it was. I felt at peace. That is, until the bell rang, and sent me scurrying away, like a frightened mouse. I went back to my car, and drove back into town, satiated.” He paused for a long moment, staring at York, who did not intend to speak again after having his hand metaphorically slapped away from his glistening reward, like a child. “And that, I’m afraid, is where the story takes a turn.” York raised his eyebrows.

Harry leant back in his chair, stewing on the memory, creasing his hands in his lap. York watched him for several minutes, as he slowly built up to the part that York had been dying to hear.

“Something was wrong in Greenvale that night, and to this day I remember it perfectly,” Harry said. The amusement was gone now, he spoke sombrely. “Suddenly, there were people in the streets, which was unusual for this time of night. I parked the car, eager to see what had happened. There was a particular crowd outside one of the houses, and I joined them. In the centre, I saw something that to this day I wish I hadn’t. A man, lying there, on the ground, his leg broken, smashed. He was several years younger than me, and I recognised him, though he wasn’t a friend. He was banging his fists on the ground, and they had turned bloody with the effort. Everyone was watching, horrified, and no-one had stopped him. I wondered why, until someone broke the circle to try and help him. When they reached for him, he lashed out, squirming like a snapped cable. He bit them. They wailed in pain and ran, and the man resumed his work turning his fists into mush on the sidewalk. When the bones were smashed beyond repair, instead of stopping, he bashed his face into the ground. Oh, the crowd gasped, but they all stood there. Even me. He pounded his head face first into the ground until he was unable to move. He lay there, twitching slightly, convulsing I suppose. And that was that.”

“Was he dead?” York asked in a muted voice, unable to keep from feeling a base level revulsion at the detailed story. Though the real horror was the image of so many onlookers just standing by, letting it happen.

“Yes, he was dead,” Harry answered. “Of course he was dead! And with the spectacle finished, the crowd edged away. I was ready to return home, and forget what I had seen. But that did not happen.”

“What did happen?” York asked.

“My parents arrived,” Harry breathed. “I saw them across the street. My mother rushed towards me, pulling me into her arms and immediately snarling at me for being out when there was trouble. I had a wild streak in my youth, and no doubt when the anxious phone call had come in from one of her friends that there was non-specific ‘trouble’ in town, she had pictured me at the centre, and demanded that my father fetch the car so they could bring me home at once.”

“Funny,” York said. “I was always very well-behaved.”

“While my mother scolded me,” Harry continued, ignoring York, “my father locked the car. I watched him approach us in his usual quiet, resigned way. My father, you’ll understand, was a practical man to a fault. He was a cynic. A hopeful one, but a cynic nonetheless. When my mother had smelled trouble, he had undoubtedly told her not to worry so much. That I was bound to be safe. Not from any personal faith in me, his son, but because it would be statistically unlikely for me to cause such trouble that it would start a late night phone tree among the local housewives. For my father, everything came in terms of likelihoods and probabilities. Bad things were always going to happen, and in regular doses. For him, there was always rain on the horizon. Which is why, even on a cloudless night, I was not surprised to see that he had worn his old, red raincoat to come and get me.”

“The raincoat…” York muttered.

“I was ready to go with my parents, and put the nasty events of that night away at the back of my mind forever,” Harry said. “But it wasn’t to be. A fight broke out behind us, between an old man and a nurse still in her work clothes. It was such an unusual pairing that even my parents stopped to stare. My father was quick to react. He rushed over, standing between them, trying to end the fight. My father was a strong, heavily built man. The two were no match for him in terms of strength. Still though, they persisted in trying to fight, first with each other and then with him. The two of them scratching at my father, when neither was as tall as his shoulder, made me laugh. My mother told me I was not to be so impolite, as to gawp at strangers. I averted my gaze. At that point, I realised that the scene my father had intervened in was not the only one unfolding. There were other people, scrapping with each other, spread out down the street. And not just with each other. Like the man before, I saw people lashing out at themselves. There was a woman, a passing acquaintance of my own age, who held my attention. I watched numbly as she smashed her face into the pole of a street sign, pulverising it to pieces. She staggered back from the dented metal once, the pretty face I’d recognised now a patchwork stitched from blood and teeth, then fell onto her knees. Dead too, I suppose. In an instant. That… was when I realised that there was not an easy answer to what I was seeing.”

“And… and what then?” York asked.

“Time begins to swirl around this point, forgive me,” Harry said. “It’s hard to remember the order. So I will stick to the important moments. My father, still doing his best to help, suddenly let out a shout. My mother ran to him in a panic, but I stayed back. I don’t know that I could have moved if I’d wanted to. He doubled over in pain, clutching his head. My mother, their earlier argument apparently forgotten for now, was asking him what was wrong. My father rarely suffered headaches. He tried to push her off him, saying something I could not hear. Then, in an instant, he was charged. I hadn’t seen the man coming, but he was on my father in an instant. He had a wood axe in his hands. Luckily for my father, the man was incompetent, smacking his arm with the handle rather than the head. My father easily took it from him, shoving the man to the ground. He was too disorientated, or drunk, to get back up again. That moment could have been the end. But as far as I’m concerned, it was the beginning.”

“What?” York said, surprised. “The beginning? But –”

“What happened next,” Harry spoke over him. “Is what matters to me. My father was still clutching at his head, struggling fiercely against something inside of him. And I do believe he fought, I saw it with my own eyes. My mother was still at his side, pleading, as far as I could tell, for him to come home that instant. The two whose fight he had attempted to end, that had started the whole tableau I was watching unfold, still beat at him with their fists. In an instant, my father reared up, clutching the axe to his chest. When he had doubled over, the hood of his raincoat had fallen over his face, and there it remained, obscuring everything. That, I feel now, was a mercy, as I watched what happened next. He lunged forward with the axe, not with the handle, like that other poor fool, but with the blade of it. He brought it down heavily on one of the stranger’s heads, cracking their skull with a sound like lightning. My mother screamed. This guttural, primitive shriek that has never left me. I watched as my father turned to her, as he swung the axe on its side, and buried it in the meat of her neck. I remember the rasps of breath she could no longer catch, mingling with the pop and fizz of blood from the wound. Although I’m sure I imagined that, filling it in later, as I was hardly standing close enough to hear my mother’s death rattle. As she collapsed, and I remained a frozen spectator, my father dispatched the two other unfortunates who were nearby. The last, that man who had handed him the damned axe to begin with, was ended by an entire series of hacks across his spine. Zig-zagging, red bootlaces, all across him.”

“You saw all this?” York asked.

“Of course I did, as if I could have looked away!” Harry chided. “As I looked down the street, I realised that most people had had enough sense to lock themselves away in their houses when everything had taken a turn. There were still some, though, a few little violent pockets, who remained. Occupied with each other, in their fatal waltzes. They had already lost their chance to return home again. That night, or ever. At that moment, my sense of self-preservation finally kicked in. I rushed to my car as if my legs were on fire, and climbed into the back seat, ducking down out of sight. Thankfully, I had not parked under a street lamp, and it was dark. I could not be seen. The people still remaining in the street clearly did not have enough sense of object permanence left to remember that I had once existed. I should have tucked my head down, pulled my knees to my chest, and pretended it was all a bad dream. God knows that is what most people did, in the aftermath of that night. But no, I was still that curious young man who had wanted to climb the clock tower. So, I looked.”

“You looked,” York repeated.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I looked. I said that my father was a strong man, and that was certainly the case. As I watched from my hiding place, he turned his attention on everyone left outside, and alive, one by one. Until there was no longer anyone left outside, and alive, but him. He stood, holding the bloodied axe and, I almost thought, seemed himself again. For just a moment, he looked slowly from side to side at the bodies littering familiar streets and seemed to recognise them for what they were. And then, again, for just a moment, he turned his head towards the car where I was hiding. My blood turned to ice. I thought I was going to die. But it passed. He turned his head. Whether he was himself in that moment, whether he had seen me, I do not know. But the next thing he did was to lift the axe and, perhaps resigned, perhaps simply with no-one else left to kill, brought it hard into the centre of his own face. And then, finally, I curled up on the back seat, pulled my knees to my chest, and told myself it was all a bad dream.”

York stared. Harry waited for his story to sink in, to stew, as it was meant to. Oddly, as the truth had finally been laid out for him, every gruesome detail in its entirety, York only found himself thinking that it was a mercy Harry had sent Michael out of the room, so he hadn’t had to hear it. If York was right, he supposed Harry had been about Michael’s age when this had happened. And to think, York had always considered his own story of paternal murder suicide to be shocking.

“What happened afterwards?” York asked. “People died –”

“And more people wanted to move on,” Harry said sharply. “How do you explain something like that? Very quickly, it transpired that there were no proper witnesses. Everyone had gone inside before they’d had a chance to see a thing. Conveniently. I won’t pretend I was brave and honest, that I was the lone voice of dissent. I told the exact same mawkish story as the rest of those potential witnesses. It was what the police wanted to hear. Nothing could have been done to prevent it. No-one knew why it had happened. And, in the days afterward, when the body count was muddied and already impossible to guess, worst of all! That the people had merely left town, looking for work, or adventure. Something exciting, that they had no chance of finding where they really were, in the ground. What could I do? Admit, as the best witness, that my father had committed the lion’s share of the murders that night? And be tarred with those crimes forever? No. No. That would not do.”

“So you lied,” York said coldly. “Everybody lied.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “To the police, who practically begged us to. To each other. And to ourselves. The incident was officially written up as ‘a riot’, I believe. There were casualties, including my parents. I don’t think that everyone was accounted for. I think some families didn’t want their loved ones listed in the records. Some people had no loved ones. I’m sure whatever number went into the file is not the accurate number of however many people died that night. If I had to guess, I would say two dozen, perhaps. The police didn’t care. It was a cover-up. A hasty, sloppy cover-up of something people couldn’t understand. The only real explanation that I ever heard, hushed and passed around as gossip, between the very few who wanted to discuss it further, was that something had corrupted the water supply, some poison, a hallucinogenic, and that had affected people’s behaviour. Driven them to it. I accepted that explanation for lack of a better one. Though anything that could have done that, affecting some limited number of people as it did, all at once as it did, is not of this earth. I stand by that explanation, too.”

“So it was, what,” York asked. “Aliens?” Harry laughed at him, suddenly, and with such a genuine sense of mirth, that York almost wondered if the whole story had been a ruse just to mess with him.

“The places you FBI Agents will go!” Harry wheezed in amusement. “Aliens! No. At first, I had no idea what substance had supposedly leaked into the water pipes and caused the massacre which robbed me of my family. One day, not long after that night, I was taking a walk, far away from town, as I had become wont to do. I found myself near the graveyard, a common destination, as I liked to at least visit my parents when I could. They are still there, of course, in one grave. I hope the argument that sent me and then them out of the house that night was not so severe that they would object to that. As I wandered around the graveyard, feeling no urge to hurry back to an empty house, I found something odd. And this, Agent York, brings our story full circle.”

“To what?” York asked.

“The red seeds!” Harry announced, with an air of triumph. “I imagine a _special agent_ such as yourself has already encountered them. They fall from those trees near the graveyard. But not then. Not then. On the day I first found the seeds, there was only one tree there. A sapling. A small red halo at its base. I took one of the fallen seeds from the circle and placed it on my tongue. Yes, that same curiosity that got me into so much trouble back then. I only ate one, and I still felt odd, like my head was spinning. I like to think of myself as an intelligent man, and it did not take me long to realise that this mysterious new tree and its bounty of unnatural seeds was a part of what had happened that night. I had no idea how the seeds may have found their way into our water, if that is indeed what had happened! All I knew, is that I finally had something to blame. I ripped the tree straight out of the ground! I snapped it over my knee and tossed it away, happy to have some petty revenge at least.”

“But that can’t be the end of it,” York rightly guessed. Harry shook his head.

“I went back to the graveyard the next week, to visit my parents grave again. And when I looked over at where that tree had been, I froze. I ran down the hill to confirm that I wasn’t hallucinating. There were three more saplings jutting out of the ground, as if challenging me to deface them like I did their brother. Well, I did. I tore them all up and snapped them all! But the next day, there were more. And eventually, I stopped tearing them up, because I realised what it meant.”

“What was that?” York asked, though he knew.

“Someone was planting them,” Harry murmured darkly. “Just as someone had introduced those seeds into the water supply, or however they had done it, and poisoned my father and the others, causing the massacre. Someone. Did it. Deliberately.”

“Who?” York asked.

“That, I do not know,” Harry sighed. “I’ve never known. I tried to stake out the graveyard, waiting for them to return after I’d destroyed all their trees, but they only came when I wasn’t there. I have never found who did it. If they’re even still alive.”

“That… must torment you,” York said. Harry snorted.

“Yes! Unsurprisingly, it does!” he agreed. “And now I’m one of the few who still remembers the truth of what happened back then. The real story of that legend.”

“The Raincoat Killer,” York said. “The real Raincoat Killer. He was your father.”

“I suppose he was,” Harry agreed, uninterestedly. “That story came later. I suppose there were some that night who couldn’t resist peeking through their curtains, who saw a hulking man in a red raincoat attacking people, and who invented their own stories to explain it once the truth was buried, never to be touched again. People needed something to say, after it all. I doubt there’s anyone left who remembers who their fictional bogeyman really was, that he had a family, that he was a human being until that one, ghastly night. No-one is left to care. No-one but me.”

“Harry, I’m sorry,” York said. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me this when I first asked. Surely you knew it was important!”

“That’s the thing, Agent York,” Harry said. “It isn’t important. Not to you. Not to this case. How my story is meant to solve any of your big questions, I don’t know. It is a closed book. What I know could not have stopped any of these deaths, and it certainly won’t help you stop any others.”

“That’s why you didn’t tell me?” York sighed, agitatedly. “Because you didn’t think it would help? You know that the killer is mimicking the Raincoat Killer legend! They’re borrowing from it! Understanding what happened has to help me understand them!”

“How?” Harry asked. York tried to answer. But he realised he couldn’t. He was suddenly painfully aware that he hadn’t gained any real insight at all. Harry recognised his silence for an admittance. “I thought as much,” he said stiffly. “Agent York, I do not intend to sit here all day and tell you the tales of how I lost my family, and I would challenge you to care if I did. I told you this because you have been harassing Michael, trying to squeeze the truth out of him. And now you can stop.”

“Ah!” York said. “I see you know about our conversation at the hospital yesterday. You’ll have to forgive me for doing my job.”

“Michael is an easy target!” Harry snapped, waving his hand. “He is a weak boy, who you could juice like a plum with the slightest pressure. That he handled himself as well as he did, amazes me. I do not wish to see him speak to you again.”

“It seems to me,” York said coolly, “that you don’t wish to see him speak to anyone.”

“Perhaps, but that’s no business of yours,” Harry sneered. York hated to admit that there wasn’t much he could do. He saw no way to break the hold Harry had over his assistant. The only thing he could think to do at all, was to act out of spite.

“I have a few more questions for Michael,” York said slowly. “I’ll need him to come with me to the station after this. To talk.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Harry snapped. “You do not wish to make an enemy of me, Agent York. You’ll leave him where he is.”

“It’s routine, I’m afraid,” York said, enjoying himself, smiling slightly. “He’ll have to come down. I’m sure it won’t take long. No more than an hour.” Harry sat very still for a moment, as if their conversation hadn’t happened, and he was once more playing the stiff corpse that York was used to.

“Very well, Agent York,” he said finally. He seemed to spit the words out, one at a time. Choosing them carefully. “Take Michael if you wish. Do whatever damage to him you see fit.”

“I will,” York said cheerfully. “I’m glad we can agree.”

“Oh, we do not agree,” Harry said darkly. “On anything.” He paused again, taking more time to think before he spoke. “Have you ever married, Agent York?” he asked. the non-sequitur caught York off guard. He struggled to think how to answer.

“No,” he said honestly. “I never have.” Harry nodded slightly, as if it was the answer he had expected.

“I was married,” Harry said. “I had a wife, a son. A new family, I suppose, to replace the one I lost on that night. I thought it would be as simple as that.”

“… and?” York asked, knowing there would be more.

“And it wasn’t,” Harry said simply. “So now I have nothing.”

“Now you have nothing,” York repeated. He found the urge to recall the death of his own parents, the loss of his only family, irresistible. Though, unlike Harry, he hoped that he would one day yet find a way to build something new.

“My wife died, too,” Harry said suddenly, jerking York from the thought. “I don’t know the details. She died a long time ago. But if I have to be honest, she was dead to me before that. I think I could have done more. I think I should have stopped it from happening.”

“Like you could have stopped your father that night?” York said, already beginning a speech about how we often think these things with hindsight in his head. Harry cut him off, and York was once again sure that he was smiling darkly underneath the mask.

“No, not like that,” Harry said plainly. “That night, I was just a scared young man. I had no control over what my father did. My wife was not like that. I have tried to tell myself differently over the years, but the truth is that I failed her. It was difficult. I failed her. She is dead. And now I have nothing.” York looked at Harry for several long minutes. There was nothing he could think to say, no words of comfort, no dismissals. Harry was surely right. It was all already decided.

“One more thing,” York said. “Have you been making any odd phone calls lately? Late at night, to strange numbers? Anything of that nature?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said. Well, York thought, that was all he was going to get from that.

“I’ll go and tell Michael we need him to come to the station,” York said. Harry said nothing, offering no goodbye. He stared coldly back at York, and it made him shiver under his collar. He went over and knocked on the door of Michael’s bedroom. He had to wait a moment for a reply.

“Yes?” Michael called through the door. He was clearly sitting back from the door, having probably not got up at the sound of the knock.

“Michael?” York called out. “This is York. I need you to come to the sheriff’s department with me, to answer some questions.” There was another pause.

“Ah. How many questions?” Michael asked, still without coming to the door.

“I’m not sure, Michael,” York said, trying to find that same spiteful amusement he had conjured when the plan had first come to him. “It will probably only be an hour. Or so.” There was an even longer pause this time, so much so that York was tempted to just barge in, no matter what Michael was doing on the other side of the door. Eventually though, York heard the sound of him moving around, and a moment later he came to the door, opening it just a crack to peer out.

“Has Mr. Stewart approved of this idea? You know that it’s late, and he needs me here,” Michael said. Back to his poetics. It was nice to have one gasp of familiarity, York thought.

“Of course he has!” York said warmly. “Get your coat.” Michael looked past York and over to Harry, who did not move at all. Then, he slammed the bedroom door, reappearing a moment later with a brown jacket clasped awkwardly in his hands. York noticed that he didn’t put it on. He had picked it up only because he had been told to, following the instruction literally. Neither of them said goodbye to Harry as they left, though Michael looked over his shoulder mournfully as he was led off. As if Harry would soon announce that it was a prank, or that he was forbidding it. There was no such luck for the dejected boy, York thought sadly, almost feeling guilty that he was using Michael as just as much a prop as the jacket he twisted back and forth in his hands.

“Don’t worry,” York said, as he opened the back door of the police cruiser for Michael to climb in. “You’re not in any trouble.”


	44. Timing

Chapter Forty-Four. [ Timing ]

Michael sat silently in the back of the police car for the entire drive. York once more felt that he was perhaps abusing his power, but tried to spend the time instead thinking of some questions to ask Michael to occupy him for a while when they arrived. Long enough to make Harry regret his behaviour.

“Did you ever get in trouble when you were younger?” York asked, trying to be friendly, and coming off, he thought, uncomfortably like an older relative trying desperately to find common ground. “Er, is this the first time you’ve been in a police car?”

“Yes,” Michael said sorrowfully, without looking up. York wondered if asking someone if they had ever been arrested for teenage hijinks was really an appropriate topic of conversation. Though he could think of worse.

When they got to the sheriff’s department, it was getting late in the afternoon, and the clouds left over from the storm made it seem darker than usual outside. Michael walked ahead of York, briskly and straight-backed, and York had to stop him after they went inside, so he could direct him to the conference room. When they were sitting down, York smiled, trying to put him at ease.

“Would you like some coffee, Michael?” he asked.

“I don’t drink coffee, only tea,” Michael mumbled. “So please don’t worry about me.”

“Where did you pick up that rhyming habit?” York asked. “It’s just curious. You sound like a character in a play.”

“Really, no-one ever comments on it,” Michael said stiffly, and York wondered if he was trying to tell a joke, or just talking back. He tried to spread out the time between his questions. He had, after all, very little to ask.

“Do you always rhyme? I know I’ve heard you drop it at points,” York pressed.

“Not always. But there is a comfortable rhythm to rhyming. And as Mr. Stewart says, it’s important to have good timing.” Michael looked down at his lap, distracted. During a more formal interview, that may have bothered York, but as it was, he wasn’t taking it that seriously either.

“How long have you worked for him?” York asked. “Mr. Stewart.”

“Six years,” Michael answered mechanically.

“Six years?” York repeated. “How old are you, Michael?”

“I’m twenty-one,” he said, again answering as if he was reading numbers off a sheet.

“But then, you’ve been working for Harry since you were fifteen?” York asked, interested suddenly, even if this had nothing to do with the investigation. It was an old habit. He loved collecting information, even if it wasn’t going to be useful.

“That is when we met,” Michael said. “Yes, when I was fifteen. What a long time it’s been.”

“That doesn’t seem particularly normal,” York couldn’t help saying. Michael looked up at him, an annoyed twitch flashing across his eyes.

“Mr. Stewart has been good to me, all this time,” Michael said. “Now. Do you actually have questions about the crime?”

“Oh, that,” York said dismissively. “Yes, Michael, of course. I wouldn’t just drag you all the way over here for no reason. Not that, if you’ll excuse me, I suspect I’m really cutting into your leisure time. What do you do in your free time? For fun?”

“Ah.” Michael looked away, squeezing his fingers unhappily. “I read.”

“Yes, you seem very well-read,” York said. He wondered how much poetry one had to read before you actually started thinking in rhyme. “All right. Harry spoke to me earlier. He told me about the story of the Raincoat Killer. The origins of the legend, and his father. Did you know about all that already?”

“Mr. Stewart tells me lots about his life,” Michael said. “From his parents to his dea–” He cut himself off. York had already guessed where he was going, however. Following a rhyme scheme left little to the imagination.

“Dead wife…?” York finished for him. “Yes, he mentioned her, too. Relax, Michael. You can talk to me. I already know everything.”

“Only a fool thinks he knows everything,” Michael muttered. York offered him a strained, fake smile.

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Tell me about her.”

“I never met Mr. Stewart’s wife. She was gone before I entered his life,” Michael said. He had begun to freeze up, York could tell. He would just have to keep pushing a while longer, get what he could from Michael, and then drop it for the evening. Maybe he’d manage to catch Emily before she left work, or maybe stop over at her house after this was done. He liked the idea of that. They could cook together again.

“He mentioned a son, too,” York said. “Do you know what happened to him?” Michael glanced tiredly around the conference room before looking back at York.

“No,” he said at last. York doubted that.

“Really?” he asked. Michael did not repeat himself. York got to his feet. “I’m going to get us both something to drink,” he said cheerfully. “Stay here. Do not move.” He walked out of the room, and through to the kitchen, jumping slightly when Emily was there.

“Hey, York,” she said. She was standing by the sink, rinsing some mugs. Probably getting ready to leave. “What did Harry say?”

“He told me a few things,” York said. “He told me who the original Raincoat Killer was.” Emily’s eyes widened.

“He did?” she gasped. “Tell me! What exactly did he say? What happened?” York considered holding off and telling her later, when he didn’t have someone waiting for him back in the conference room. But, he decided, Michael could stew for a while. If only to make sure Harry did the same.

York recounted the whole story, as loyally as possible. He told Emily that Harry’s father had been overcome whilst wearing the now-infamous raincoat, that he had attacked his neighbours with a wood axe, and that the whole incident had been covered up. He told her about the trees that grew by the graveyard, and that Harry had tried to tear them to pieces, only to watch as they reappeared, time and again. He told her that the red seeds, those infuriating leftovers from all the murder scenes, were supposedly responsible. He finished by mentioning Harry’s dead wife, and the unknown fate of his son. Emily took a moment to register it all.

“Wait,” Emily said. “This barely sounds real. Are you sure?”

“I don’t think he was lying,” York said. “And I’ve seen those trees for myself. It was a lot of trouble to go to for a lie.” Emily nodded. “Emily,” York said. “Do you know who his wife might have been? I know it’s probably before your time, but do you have any idea?”

“Well, there aren’t any other Stewarts living in Greenvale, as far as I know,” Emily said. “And I’ve never heard anything about it before. But wait, why did Harry choose now to tell you all this?”

“He thought we were going to break Michael,” York explained. “I suppose he wanted me to hear it from him, rather than get an outline from his assistant. He wanted us to leave him alone. I can’t tell if Harry was being protective of Michael, or, more likely, just controlling.”

“Yeah…” Emily agreed. “So, are you leaving now? I was about to head off home. George said he’s going to stay late, and finish some paperwork.” She lowered her voice. “Honestly, I just don’t think he wants to go home right now. Too many demons, after Carol.”

“I understand,” York said. “But I can’t leave yet. I still have Michael waiting in the conference room.”

“Are you questioning him?” Emily laughed. “I thought you said you got the whole story!”

“I did, Emily,” York said, smirking. “I just want Harry to know he can’t tell me what to do. And he was very insistent I not talk to Michael anymore.”

“There you go, making more friends,” Emily laughed to herself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved and walked out of the room. York glanced at the clock, and was glad to see he had killed plenty of time. Harry would no doubt be regretting their last conversation by now. York hurriedly prepared two mugs of coffee, and brought them back through to the conference room, where Michael was sitting in exactly the same position as he had been before.

“Hello,” York said, putting one of the mugs down in front of Michael, who did not touch it. York sipped from his own mug. It was all right. He preferred the taste of other people’s coffee to his own.

“I will need to get back to Mr. Stewart before much more time has passed,” Michael said. “I do hope the rest of your questions will be fast.”

“You worry about him,” York suggested.

“That is my job,” Michael said simply. “Mr. Stewart struggles without my care. I cannot deprive him, it would be unfair.”

“You sound tired, drink some coffee,” York said, sipping from his. “Coffee is good for you.”

“It is not good for you, it is disgusting,” Michael said, turning up his nose. “Now, surely you brought me here to ask me something.” He was eager to get home, York thought. He couldn’t blame him.

“All right, fine,” York said. “I want to know about Harry’s wife and son. Tell me about them.” Michael didn’t reply. “Come on,” York pushed. “He’s told you about them, I know it.”

“His wife is… dead,” Michael said. “And his son is gone. That is all I know about either one.”

“How can his son just be gone?” York laughed. “Do you mean he moved outside of Greenvale? Harry said that he wasn’t sure exactly how his wife had died, or he certainly implied it. Did they leave him?” To his surprise, Michael laughed. Bitterly, York thought.

“No!” Michael said, before catching himself. “Ah. No. I don’t think so.”

“Michael, I hate to remind you that profiling is my job,” York said. “If you think that reaction is going to go by unnoticed, then you’re not as smart as you seem.” Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“To my knowledge, Mr. Stewart is the one who left them,” he mumbled. “But that really is all I know. It is. I can’t tell you anything else about it…” York suspected Michael might have been well-behaved as a child. After all, the way he lied, he would have immediately been caught in any wrongdoing. York enjoyed bad liars. Much more than good ones.

“I understand, Michael,” York said. “It was before you met him.” Michael nodded eagerly, happy to have something to hide behind, even if he clearly knew more of the story than he was telling. “How about I drive you home?” Without waiting a second, Michael got up from his chair, reaching for his jacket and waiting for York to follow suit. York led him out to the parking lot, holding up the passenger side door for him this time. Michael hesitated before it, as if there was a trick.

“Don’t you want me to sit in the back?” he muttered. York shook his head gesturing for him to get in.

“No,” he said. “Be my guest.” Michael slowly climbed in, sitting stiffly in the seat. York joined him in the car a moment later, and started it up. He took out a cigarette before remembering he had company. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, doing his best to be considerate.

“No,” Michael said. York smiled, and lit it, cracking open the window and pulling out of the parking lot.

“Do you smoke?” he asked.

“Ah, uh.” Another sterling example of lying, York thought.

“You’re an adult, aren’t you?” he said, amused. “Everybody smokes these days. Especially kids.”

“Rarely,” Michael said, finally answering the question. “When… I get stressed. But I could easily stop if pressed.” York had never even considered stopping smoking, so couldn’t imagine why people would want to. Yes, for health reasons, he thought. But he was still alive, wasn’t he?

“I’m sure your parents worry about you,” York said. Michael turned to look out of the window.

“Do they?” he breathed. It occurred to York that, just perhaps, any parents who had let their son take a job with Harry Stewart at fifteen were possibly not very strict. He regretted bringing it up. There was silence for a while, but it was a long drive, and York felt he may as well try to fill it.

“Do you like movies, Michael?” York asked, leaning on his old standby.

“Excuse me?” Michael asked. “Ah. I don’t watch a great deal of them.”

“No? That’s a shame,” York said. “Have you seen Eraserhead?”

“I haven’t,” Michael said.

“I love Eraserhead!” York said cheerfully. “1977, with John Nance. I’ve always wondered how we’re meant to feel about the main character, Henry Spencer. He seems so miserable at points, but then, when you think about it, did he bring it all on himself? He and Mary X, no last name given, bring something evil into the world, and then neither of them seem able to contain it. Really, that’s the struggle of life, isn’t it? When all is said and done, are we able to answer for our actions? Henry wasn’t. He was far too desperate to abandon it all and get that happy ending with the woman of his dreams. That, or it’s all about family, and parenthood. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said flatly. “I haven’t seen it.”

“Yes, that’s right,” York said, remembering. He’d got caught up talking to himself. They were nearly back at the Stewart mansion, anyway. “It’s tempting though, isn’t it? To imagine that we all have some dream woman waiting for us on the other side? I know I’ve thought about it.”

“I don’t dream,” Michael said curtly. “There’s nothing other than reality. Daydreaming can’t set you free.” York laughed a little to himself. What a surly answer, he thought. Typical of a young person. Surely, with time, Michael would learn to appreciate that there was more to life than what’s in front of you. Though, York wondered, perhaps that was just how he saw it.

“Here we are,” York said, stopping the car in front of the front doors. “I’ll walk you in. I want to apologise to Harry.” Or, he thought, just see the look on his face. Michael didn’t protest. He held his jacket in front of him, and walked up the steps, pushing open the front door. It had been unlocked. York remembered that he was in a small town, and up in the hills of it at that. There was probably no reason for Michael to keep the door locked during the day. Not that it was day anymore, York realised. He had kept Michael all through the evening. It was getting late.

“Mr. Stewart, I’ve returned at last!” Michael called out, as he strode down the hallway with York walking behind him. “I am sorry so much time has passed!” They’d only been about two hours overall, York thought. That wasn’t terrible. The two of them walked the now familiar path through to the dining hall. There was no light, York noticed, other than what little came through the large picture window. As they entered, Michael reached for a light switch to brighten the room.

Harry remained almost exactly where he’d been when they’d left, sitting in his chair, facing away from the window, the sound of the waterfall crashing in the background. There was a difference, however. Michael reacted first, shouting out, and immediately rushing across the room, falling at Harry’s feet, and letting out a series of strangled gasps. York walked over slowly, in disbelief.

Harry was motionless. More so than usual, unnaturally so. Permanently. His last gruesome story had turned out to be an appropriate parting note. He had been stabbed. Someone had practically emptied an entire knife block into him. All of the kitchen knives remained where they’d struck, jutting out of his shoulders, ribs, and stomach. As a final, esoteric touch, the killer had taken a sword – a thin Japanese katana, if pop culture hadn’t lied to him, York thought – and shoved it through Harry’s chest. The end of the blade jutted out of the back of the chair. The force must have been difficult to achieve, and reminded York of the same thing he’d thought seeing the knife wounds in Quint’s chest, and the damage to Carol’s face. Their killer was passionate about their work. Harry’s wounds had bled a great deal, but that was over now. York didn’t need to take his pulse to realise he was dead. He could see that for himself.

Oddly, the thing that disturbed York the most was not the murder, nor the violence with which it had been carried out. It was something more ordinary. The gasmask that Harry always wore, that York had come to associate with him instead of the usual picture of eyes, mouth, nose that came along with other people, was gone. It had been tossed onto the floor, ripped off and discarded during the attack. Instead, for the first time, York saw Harry’s face. York marvelled at how grey and lined and tired he looked. He looked old, very old. All the pretence and theatre that had come with that skull-like mask was gone. Underneath it, he had just been a man, and a weak, old man at that.

“Come on, Michael, you can’t be here,” York muttered, reaching out to help him up. Michael jerked away from him, clutching at Harry’s leg and, York realised at last, crying. “Michael, I have to get you away from here, it’s a crime scene,” York tried again. He was uncomfortable. This scene reminded him of Thomas’s reaction when he had found out Carol had been killed. The raw emotion was unpleasant to witness.

“I can’t!” Michael said, voice muffled and shaky through his tears. He pulled away again, and the movement rocked Harry’s body enough for something to trickle from his mouth. York looked into the man’s lap, where the red droplets had fallen. It was mostly spit, with some blood, though it was hard to tell if the blood had leaked from his mouth or merely been picked up as he unknowingly drooled down his own dead body. But with it, had come a seed. York sighed to himself. He had to check.

York, as delicately as he could manage, lifted Harry’s head an inch upwards from where it hung uselessly against his chest. The mouth opened on its own, desperate to unveil its bounty. Seeds spilled over the grey lips, tipping down into Harry’s lap. The same as the others, York thought. The killer had stuffed seeds into his mouth. No wonder they’d felt the need to remove his mask. For Harry, he suspected, this would have been a personal indignity worse than death itself. The red seeds, that he had only just finished describing as the conduit through which his misfortune had sailed, the crux of the massacre that had taken his parents, force fed to him at the moment before his death. Passionate, violent, and the killer did their research too, York thought to himself. That, or they had been handed a very dark coincidence.

Standing close to the body, he noticed something else. Tucked into the front pocket of Harry’s jacket was a piece of paper. York removed it, knowing what it would be already. He dreaded the sight of that same looping, elaborate handwriting he was beginning to know so well. The paper was torn again, and York was beginning to wonder if all the notes had come from the same notebook page. He read the note in a whisper to himself.

“The Return of the Raincoat Killer,” York whispered. “On rainy nights. They ate the seeds. They laugh at him. They underestimate his glory.”

“What did you say? Where did you get that?” Michael mumbled, looking up at York with teary eyes. York quickly tucked the note away in his pocket.

“Nothing,” he said. “Now, Michael, I need to take you somewhere. You can’t stay here.”

“But I have to,” Michael moaned. “I can’t just leave. This is my fault! I should never have left!” York had already considered the fact that if he hadn’t taken Michael to the sheriff’s department, Harry would still be alive. But he didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

“I understand you’re upset, Michael,” York said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have prevented this. And now it’s time to go.”

“How can I leave when it’s all my fault?” Michael cried. “I deserve to be here!” Now York was beginning to tire of Michael’s attitude. He needed to call the other officers as soon as possible, not to mention Ushah at the hospital, if he was still there.

“You have to come with me, Michael,” York said firmly. “I know you cared for Harry, but he was just your boss, and you can say goodbye to him after the police have searched the crime scene.”

“He wasn’t my boss!” Michael shouted, turning his face away from York.

“Then what was he?” York asked, frustrated.

“He was my father!” Michael wailed. York stood still. The room was quiet, with only the sound of Michael’s grieved sobbing to break the silence.


	45. Family Tree

Chapter Forty-Five. [ Family Tree ]

Half an hour later, after calling the sheriff’s department and suffering a steely conversation with George, York had managed to coax Michael into his bedroom. George, Emily, and Ushah had all arrived, the latter two summoned by the sheriff from home. George and Ushah were dealing with the body. Emily had promised to make some tea. York had doubts over whether whatever she was going to present would be drinkable. For now, he was sitting with Michael in his room. There was only one chair, which York had retrieved from the desk, and placed next to the bed. Michael, uninterested in formality for once in his life, was sitting on his bed, knees pulled up, staring numbly straight ahead.

The door opened, and Emily appeared, carrying a cup of tea and a saucer, which she put down on the nightstand, carefully easing the phone and the box of tissues York had retrieved out of the way.

“Here, Michael,” Emily said gently, sitting down on the far end of the bed. “You should drink something, don’t you think?” Mechanically, Michael reached for the cup, sipped once, and then replaced it.

“Are you feeling better?” York asked. Emily frowned at him. Although even York knew it wasn’t exactly the right question, he couldn’t think what would be.

“No,” Michael said. He had stopped crying at least, York thought. Although the silent staring wasn’t much of an improvement.

“Michael, I know this is a bad time,” York said. “But I have to ask you something.” There was no reply. York pressed on anyway. “When you said… that Harry was your father, what did you mean?” Emily shot York a look of shock. There were far too many revelations coming out of the Stewart household tonight.

“What do you think!” Michael snapped. “How many things can that mean?”

“Can you tell us anyway?” Emily asked softly. “Please?” Once again, York felt indebted to her far superior way with people. Michael sighed, digging his fingers into his knees.

“Mr. Stewart adopted me,” he explained. “But that was our secret. He preferred people to believe something else. It was private. It was no-one’s business.” On one level, York was glad this entire conversation wasn’t being held in rhyme, but he supposed all it showed was how rattled Michael was.

“He adopted you?” York repeated. “When you were fifteen, I suppose.” Michael nodded. “But why didn’t he want anyone to know that? And why, Michael, do you always call him Mr. Stewart?” Even now, he thought to himself.

“I…” Michael started, struggling. “He was a private man.” York could definitely agree with that, but it still did little to explain the situation. “He didn’t want to draw any attention to our family.”

“In case it was bad luck?” Emily suggested. Michael jumped on it.

“Yes, I expect so,” he said, nodding. “He had been so… unfortunate.” Emily glanced over at York, and York was glad he’d had time to tell her Harry’s whole story. It seemed central to this.

“I’m very sorry, Michael,” she said gently. “About all of this. I know it’s hard for you to talk about.”

“Yes,” Michael agreed hesitantly. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course, go ahead,” Emily said.

“If you catch the killer, what will happen to them?” he asked. Emily let York take it.

“They’ll go to prison for a long time,” he answered. “A very long time. This is a serial killer. I’d be surprised if they saw daylight again. Metaphorically.” Michael tucked his chin further between his knees. “I know it’s hard to imagine the kind of person who could do this,” York went on. “But just take comfort in the fact that they will be punished.”

“Punished…” Michael repeated. “What if they think they’re doing the right thing?”

“Michael, I can’t see how anyone could think that,” Emily said at once. Clearly he had gone to some dark places in his mind. Although, York thought, he wasn’t completely wrong.

“No… no,” Michael agreed finally. “If you think so.”

“I have a lot of experience with this sort of thing,” York said. “Trust me.” Michael said nothing. He was lost in thought. “Is there anyone we can call for you?” York asked in the face of more silence.

“Who?” Michael asked.

“Family,” York suggested. Michael sighed.

“I don’t have any family,” he said. “Anymore.”

“Did Harry, uh, Mr. Stewart have any family we need to call?” Emily asked. Although she sounded perfectly comforting, and sensitive, York suspected she was trying to pry some more information about Harry’s missing son from Michael, at a tender moment. He was impressed.

“What family?” Michael asked spitefully, turning in on himself again. “They’re dead.”

“All of them?” York asked, pointedly. Michael could see what he was getting at, but he still resisted answering. “Michael, just tell me,” York sighed. “Harry had another son. Where is he?”

“Mr. Stewart… would never want me to tell you,” Michael mumbled. “He found it so humiliating.”

“Go on,” Emily said, edging closer and patting Michael’s knee. “It’s important to tell us now.”

“All right,” Michael sighed, finally giving in. “I only know what I was told. Well… When Mr. Stewart was younger, he married. He told me about his wife often. She was beautiful, he said. Beautiful, with dark hair and green eyes.” York looked unhappily down at Michael himself, with his own dark hair and green eyes, and could already tell that Harry may not have had the most altruistic motives in adopting him. As if that wasn’t already obvious. Whatever happened to his biological son at the end of this story, Harry had clearly tried to move on from it, in what was not the fairest way.

“Yes, go on,” York said.

“There is a photo of her in Mr. Stewart’s things that he would show me sometimes,” Michael went on. “And she was beautiful, I’m sure. They look very happy in the photo.” He paused, struggling. “Mr. Stewart always said that he had expected to be with her for the rest of his life, and that their family would be everything he wanted. He was wealthy, happy, and he had everything he wanted. But… it did not last.”

“Why is that?” York asked.

“Because his wife was not… happy,” Michael said softly. “Mr. Stewart told me that that was what brought everything down. His wife could not find it in herself to be happy, and he couldn’t bear to watch her be unhappy, so he left. He walked away from them, but he regretted it for the rest of his life. He always told me that, that he regretted it so strongly, and that he wished he could have done more to help them. When he found out that she had died…” Michael put a hand over his face. “He told me he could barely say a word for weeks. I think it was some time after she died that he found out what had happened. He did not see her for many years before her death. He regrets that now too. He… he always did regret it.”

“I understand,” York said. Although he couldn’t really say he did. From what he could tell, Harry had walked away from his wife and son because their family life together did not go exactly as he wanted it to. But for Michael’s sake, he would pretend.

“He longed for a happy family, all his life,” Michael said sorrowfully. “That is what he told me! And he lost it, twice. His parents, and then his wife and son. He really had nothing. I was…” He stopped, stammering for a moment before forcing himself on. “I was… supposed to fix it.”

“Fix it?” Emily asked gently, frowning. “Fix it how?” She sounded almost motherly, York thought.

“I was supposed to be a good son!” Michael hiccupped, trying not to cry again, from the sound of it. “And I wasn’t! I never managed to be enough!”

“Michael that can’t be true!” Emily said desperately. “I’m sure Harry loved you!”

“I wasn’t good enough!” Michael said again, burying his face in his hands, screwing his fists into his eyes. “Even tonight… I let him die. I let him die alone! Now I’ll never be enough. I’ll never be enough!”

“Michael, you –” Emily started, but he carried on regardless, dissolving into tears as he spoke.

“Why did I leave him?” Michael asked himself desperately. “I should have known… I should have seen this coming! I should never have left him, he never liked me to! Oohh. Now I’ll never be anything, I’ll never be able to fix this. I was never as good as they were, ever, anyway, and this just proves it!”

“Never as good as who?” York asked.

“As good as his wife and son!” Michael moaned. “I could never replace them, he told me that. I wasn’t good enough! I tried, I tried so hard, every day, but he always told me that I couldn’t replace them. He regretted leaving them so much, he told me that, too. He was right… he was right about me, all this time, and I knew it. He told me he wanted a son he could be proud of… it was all he wanted… and I wasn’t… I wasn’t!”

“Michael, you were, I’m sure you were!” Emily said frantically. Michael shook his head.

“No, I wasn’t!” he sobbed. “He would have traded me for them without even thinking.”

“How can you know that?” York asked.

“Because he told me!” Michael wailed. “He told me if he could go back, he would. He would trade this… _family_ , he said it so scornfully… for his real family. His real son. That was… that was what he really wanted, and I was never good enough to change his mind!”

Emily and York looked at each other in desperation as Michael continued to cry into his hands. They had run out of platitudes. York could not help but think that anyone who had done this to his son, his second son, after leaving the first one, could not have been the kind of father you should strive to impress. But then, try telling the son that. Eventually, the sight was too much for Emily, and she leaned over, wrapping an arm around Michael and hugging him, shushing him and rocking him. It took a while, but he emerged in time, all cried out.

“So,” York said, half-heartedly. “I suppose we shouldn’t try to contact Harry’s son, after all.”

“You may if you wish,” Michael said, wiping his eyes. “He might want to know.”

“What?” Emily asked. “So you do know who it is!”

“Of course,” Michael sniffed. “Mr. Stewart changed his last name to start afresh, wanting to escape the bad luck that came with the last one, perhaps. But I know who his son was. He made sure I did.”

“Who?” York asked.

“George Woodman,” Michael answered. York froze. Suddenly, Harry’s woe over an unhappy wife and George’s horror stories of his abusive mother tied together. The same woman. York tried to remember what it was George had said, specifically, about his father. ‘He’s long gone,’ George had told him. ‘Whoever he was. He never looked back’. Despite Michael’s speech to the contrary, York suspected George had been completely right. The things his mother had done to him, while his father had been practically within walking distance the whole time. That was unforgivable. Harry had done something unforgivable.

“You fucking little liar!”

York, Emily, and Michael turned to the doorway. George was standing there, one foot into the room, presumably having come to tell them that the scene was clear. His face twisted up in anger and, York felt, confusion.

“You fucking little piece of shit liar!” George snarled again, pointing at Michael.

“I… Mr. Woodman, I…” Michael tried, but George slammed the door, disappearing. York got straight up to go after him.

“Keep an eye on Michael,” he told Emily, as he chased after the sheriff.

♦ ♦ ♦

York caught up to George outside of the side door, that led into the private parking lot where Harry had kept his collection of cars. Ushah had brought an ambulance around to this door, probably aware of the other road leading up to it from helping Harry in the past. The ambulance was still there, and Ushah was leaning against it. When he saw George, and more importantly, George’s expression, he walked swiftly past York and back inside, muttering something about seeing where Emily was.

“George,” York said, out of breath from running. Maybe he should rethink the cigarettes after all. “George, this must be complicated.”

“You think that little doe-eyed rat knows anything?” George spat. “Harry Stewart was a goddamn menace. He didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself, didn’t give a fuck about the law, or how things are done, or anything! Like fuck was he my father, York. We don’t have a thing in common.”

“I won’t argue with that last part,” York said. He didn’t think Harry and George were particularly alike. Harry’s father, George’s grandfather, the strong, cynical man whose attempts to dedicate himself to the act of helping others had so miserably failed, in such a grisly way. Now, there was a likeness there. However, York decided George would not appreciate being compared to a man who had inspired the legendary Raincoat Killer at this delicate moment.

“Agree with all of it!” George snarled. “You tell me, York. You tell me now that that spoilt, bratty, glorified microphone is a liar, like I know he is. Like I told you he was from the start!” York looked back at George, and despite his anger, it was clear that the sheriff was deeply conflicted. It was hard enough for him to think that his father had been so close by for his whole life, and never said a word to him. Worse still that the man had just been killed.

“George, you know Harry adopted Michael?” York said calmly, trying to balance out the conversation. To move to a slightly less controversial area. “He wasn’t just working as his assistant. Michael thinks that Harry did it because of his guilt over leaving his family.”

“That… that’s ridiculous,” George breathed heavily. “That kid? They weren’t father and son.”

“I agree,” York said. “In the conventional sense, anyway. Harry doesn’t seem to have ever truly warmed up to him. Maybe he did, and kept it hidden. Who knows.”

“He practically marched him around on a leash,” George grunted. “Michael wasn’t his son. Maybe his pet. What kind of a father would –” He stopped himself.

“The kind that would abandon their son,” York said gently, making his point. “The kind that would walk away and leave someone who needed them desperately. Then try to replace them with someone else, and shut out that unlucky fool when it didn’t work. That kind of father.”

“Old bastard,” George said, anger slowly draining away in favour of grief. “He knew… Did he know? York,” he said, shaking York’s arm hard. “Did he know?”

“He knew,” York said quietly. George looked down at the ground. There was no way of avoiding the truth; that Harry had known who George’s mother was, what she would do to their son, and then walked away anyway. It was horrific.

“He wasn’t my father,” George said again, although this time York felt he was being metaphorical. “Christ. The way my mother treated me, constantly, and still. You know what, York? He was worse. He was worse than her, cause he coulda stopped her, and he fucking left. He… he fucking left me behind.” York knew that George wouldn’t cry in front of him, but he heard his voice break slightly in the last few words.

“George, I’ll leave you alone to think,” York said. “I’m sure you want some time.” He turned and was about to go back into the house, but George held his arm.

“Tell him it wasn’t his fault,” George said, voice heavy. “Tell the kid… it wasn’t his fault. Any of it. You will do that, York? Do it.” He let go. York nodded, and left George to think by himself. As York walked away, he wondered if George had meant the murder, or everything before. All the hurt. All the years that led up to tonight. Both, he decided.

When York opened the door to Michael’s bedroom, he saw that Ushah had taken up his chair. He smiled grimly back at York when he entered. Emily had moved back down to the foot of the bed, and Michael sipped at the cold tea she had made and occasionally rubbed at his nose with a tissue.

“The sheriff… needs a minute,” York said, winning an award for the best understatement of the day. There were mumbles of agreement, but no-one felt much like talking. York stood quietly in the doorway for a moment. “Ushah,” he said at last. “Can we talk about… that?”

“Sure,” Ushah said, getting up and following York back into the dining hall. He was desperate for an excuse to leave the room, and York didn’t blame him. It felt like a year since York had last seen him that morning, he realised. It had been a busy day.

“Did you learn anything interesting?” York asked. He was glad to see that Harry was gone, chair and all. He didn’t want to look at him again.

“The knives were all superficial wounds,” Ushah said levelly. “Painful, no doubt, but they didn’t kill him. That would be the sword.”

“Ah yes, the sword,” York agreed, remembering. “What an odd choice of weapon.”

“Not really,” Ushah disagreed. “Convenient, actually. Michael says it’s his. Or was. I don’t think he wants it back. Err… I don’t blame him on that front.”

“Wait, that was Michael’s?” York asked, surprised by the news. Ushah shrugged.

“Says it was a gift. Harry gave it to him,” he explained. “It was meant to be ornamental. Key words, meant to be. Still sharp, though. He must have taken good care of it. Anyway, I figure the killer took it out of his room before they killed Harry.”

“Clearly,” York agreed.

“Now, don’t hold me to this until I’ve done the autopsy,” Ushah said, raising a hand. “But I think our killer wounded Harry first on purpose, so they’d have time to go and get the sword. Wonder how long it took them to find something worthy of their professional style.” He snorted. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

“And Harry would be unable to move, or fight back, especially whilst wounded badly,” York thought aloud. Ushah nodded. And, he thought to himself, he’d be unable to call for help this far from civilization.

“Yeah,” Ushah agreed. “One of those knives looked like it severed something in the shoulder. I doubt he could move around with just the one arm.” The killer really had left Harry with no chance of escape, York thought. He shook his head. “I should get him back to the hospital,” Ushah said. “It’s gonna be a late night for me. But hey, Agent York, promise me we’ll catch up with a chess game one of these days, all right?”

“Absolutely, Ushah,” York said, smiling. “I won’t miss it.” Ushah smiled back, and patted York’s shoulder, hurrying off towards the door. York hoped they would have the chance. Maybe when everything was over. He went back into the bedroom, where neither Emily nor Michael had moved much. Though, he did notice, Michael had finished the tea.

“Michael,” York said. “You can’t stay here all by yourself tonight. Is there anywhere I can take you? Anyone you can stay with?”

“Who?” Michael asked numbly. “I have no family, and no real friends. This, for me, is where it ends.”

“I won’t let you spend the night in this house by yourself,” York repeated, firmly.

“Please do…” Michael said. “Perhaps, if I leave the door unlocked again, they might come back and kill me, too. I want them to force a knife into my heart, all the way through.” The rhyming was back in force, York noticed. If it gave him a sense of control over what was happening, York wouldn’t say anything.

“Leave… the door unlocked,” York mimicked quietly, remembering what he had noticed when he’d driven Michael back. No wonder he was blaming himself for what had happened. “Michael, no. Get up. Get a bag, pack some clothes. I’m going to drive you to the hotel, and you can sleep there tonight. I’ll pay for it.”

“Or the FBI will…?” Emily suggested, weakly, trying to say something funny.

“The FBI will pay for it,” York agreed, appreciating the intention of the joke, even if it wasn’t funny. “Pack some things, and we’ll go.”

“It’s all my fault…” Michael muttered. “I let this happen.”

“No,” York insisted. Then, he repeated George’s words, deciding they were the best thing he could say in the circumstances. “It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.” Michael looked up at him with large, damp green eyes. How anyone could be cruel to someone who looked at them like that, York didn’t know.

“Only a fool thinks he knows everything,” Michael said softly, recalling their earlier conversation. Then he got up to go and find a bag.


	46. In the Ground

Chapter Forty-Six. [ In the Ground ]

The morning passed hazily for York. After the night he’d had, it was no surprise. He’d had to wake Polly, at one in the morning, with Michael dragging his heels close behind. She had taken pity on them and refused to complain about the late hour, acting as sunny and cheerful as she did when serving breakfast. She had checked Michael into a room which, at his insistence, was at the far end of the hotel, away from the two other guests. The last York had heard, she was insisting on Michael joining them all for breakfast, making vague, playful comments that he needed to put on some weight. If you could bury grief under pancakes, York decided he might be all right after all.

When he had woken up, York had sighed to himself. Even Harry Stewart, seemingly infallible, untouchable, had become a victim of the Raincoat Killer. Anyone could be next. No-one was safe. He’d thought about what George had said that evening in the Galaxy of Terror. That they couldn’t have their eyes on everyone all the time. If they tried to protect someone, the killer would choose someone else, because they wouldn’t stop killing until they were done. It was sobering. And clearly right. Harry didn’t seem like an obvious target, especially not after Quint and Carol.

York had stuck his head in at breakfast, long enough to slug a cup of coffee and note that Michael hadn’t showed up. Polly explained apologetically that he had wanted to stay in his room. He wasn’t feeling social. How long before she found out why, York had wondered. Surely the rumour mill was already starting on Harry’s death.

He barely remembered the drive over to the sheriff’s department, or the phone call he placed to Ushah upon arrival. Ushah had little news for him. He had basically confirmed what he’d said the night before, that Harry had been wounded first and then delivered a killing blow by the sword. He said that the seeds had been forced into his mouth before death, as he seemed to have swallowed some. Just as before, York had thought. York had thanked him and hung up. He still didn’t manage to escape the dreary haze of morning, until the moment he walked into the conference room, and saw Emily.

Had it really only been a matter of days since she had come to his hotel room, York wondered? He’d told her secrets he’d never shared with anyone else. And, he thought to himself, he would again. Just to have the chance to spend that evening together again. Sitting, talking. Connecting. And falling for her, he reminded himself. Because through everything that had happened since, the murder and the revelations and all the misery, his conviction had not melted an inch. He loved her.

“Good morning, Emily,” he said, taking a seat opposite her.

“Did he get there all right?” she asked quickly, apparently having been sitting on the question all morning. “Michael. Was he okay?”

“He was all right. He got to his room fine,” York said, fighting but ultimately expressing a smile. He thought her concern was touching. Becky, Thomas, and now Michael. There were suddenly a lot of people to be concerned for. “If he can fight off Polly’s constant offers of food, he may just recover.”

“That’s quite an if,” Emily joked, laughing a little. “Did you speak to Ushah? About the autopsy.” York filled her in on the details. Then, suddenly remembering, he took the third note out of his pocket, where he had put it after removing it from Harry’s body.

“I forgot to mention this,” he explained, handing it to her. “Another card from our secret admirer.” Emily’s lip twitched as she read it.

“Why do they write these?” she asked aloud. “Who is the they in this? Or the him, even? ‘They underestimate his glory’… it’s so creepy.”

“I don’t understand how they think,” York admitted. “Not especially, anyway. I can imagine how a serial killer works, but I’ve yet to meet the Raincoat Killer personally.”

“Let’s hope when you do, that they’re in handcuffs,” Emily said, shivering. “Anyway, York… I hope you didn’t have much planned for me today.” York’s heart sunk. He had hoped they could spend some time together. “Unless you need me,” she went on. “George has asked that I spend the day looking through records with him. I know, I know. It’s just busywork, but he needs the company, and even after everything… well, what he found out last night must have hit him hard. I don’t want him to have to be alone all day.”

“That’s commendable, Emily,” York sighed. “That’s fine. I have some things I can do. And I don’t think he should be alone either.” Emily smiled appreciatively.

“I’ll see you later?” she asked. York nodded, and she left the room, off to help George keep his mind off his estranged, and suddenly deceased, father. It was probably better that he wasn’t left alone to enter a tailspin, York thought.

“So, Zach,” he muttered. “It looks like we’re on our own today. We’ll have to find a way to fill the time. And perhaps dodge the concerned citizens of Greenvale.” It had occurred to him that news of a third murder would start a panic. Especially when people knew that the richest man in town had been the victim, killed in his own home. It would be better for York to keep away from that, he decided. Fortunately, he could think of the perfect place to go. Far from the centre of town, and home to someone he was eager to speak to. Urgently.

♦ ♦ ♦

At the graveyard, Brian was already standing next to his shack, as if he’d been waiting all along. York walked up to him cautiously. He had more information now, hopefully enough to get Brian to talk to him, but it was still an off-putting idea. Brian turned to face him with a blank expression.

“H-hello… York… and Zach,” he said. York twitched.

“Hello, Brian,” he said coolly. “I have some things to discuss with you.”

“You seem… u-unhappy,” Brian deduced. Impressively empathetic for a ghost, York thought.

“Harry Stewart told me about the Raincoat Killer,” York pressed on. “Or, about his father, I should say. He told me everything.”

“Harry Stewart,” Brian repeated. “He has… two names. Like you.” York disliked where this was going already. Why Brian had to constantly mention Zach, he didn’t know. “The… woodmen,” Brian finished. “So u-unlucky.”

“Harry Woodman, yes, that was his birth name,” York agreed. Brian smiled in his typically twisted way, and York scowled uneasily at him.

“Birth… names?” Brian parroted. “Some people have… two names.”

“I know!” York sighed angrily. He was getting off track, letting Brian steer the conversation. He needed to bring it back. “My point is that he told me who the Raincoat Killer was. That’s what you wanted me to find out, isn’t it? You told me to ask the people who remember. That was Harry. And he told me about those red seeds as well, and how they caused the massacre. I suppose if you eat enough of them, they have some interesting effects. But now I know, that’s the point.”

“Harry… Woodman,” Brian repeated, as if York hadn’t spoken. “He was th-there. I knew… him.”

“What?” York asked, cautiously optimistic. Finally, a tiny hint at personal information.

“York… come with m-me,” Brian said, smiling and raising an arm to gesture toward the main body of the graveyard. There were few things York wanted to do less. Possibly go on a day trip with George and Michael and help them work out their family problems. That would probably top the list. Without many other options, York began to begrudgingly follow Brian as he walked away. Brian walked awkwardly, skipping steps without ever hurting his stride, and York had to stop himself from looking at the man’s feet before it got under his skin.

“How do you know Harry?” York asked. He got no answer.

“Greenvale…” Brian said instead. “H-how does it… look, to you?”

“How does it look?” York asked. “Like most small towns in Washington, I suppose. Trees, mountains, and plenty of those little neat farmstead houses in a line. It’s a welcome change to the city. But I don’t think that’s what I want to talk about now.”

“Is there… a house,” Brian went on regardless. “With big g-gates. On Brownie Street. Is… th-there?”

“I don’t think I’ve been over there,” York said. He couldn’t remember it from the map. “Why?” He thought Brian’s shoulders sank, though he couldn’t be certain.

“No… not… important,” Brian said. He paused for a minute. York realised that they were just wandering, walking in wide circles. Brian wasn’t really taking him anywhere specific. “The Raincoat K-killer,” he suddenly said. His voice was even jerkier than usual.

“Yes,” York said. He was glad Brian was finally leading the conversation.

“So long… ago,” Brian said. “H-how long. Has it… been?”

“About fifty years, that’s what Harry said,” York told him. “It’s 2009.” Brian shook his head, making the hat he wore slip down his forehead. He immediately righted it, and York could almost laugh at the silly act of dignity. Regardless of what exactly Brian was, he certainly liked his image.

“The… red seeds,” Brian went on. “They make people… ch-change.”

“They do, don’t they,” York agreed.

“It… rises up,” Brian said. “L-like noise, and colours… bursting… o-o-overwhelming.” York shivered, curling and uncurling his hands unhappily at the description. “Di-different things… for different people…” Brian said. “Some are… happy. They are… bright. Softer… reds. Different noise. E-everything… warm.”

“Huh,” York muttered. He was uncomfortable. He couldn’t quite shake the ringing in his ears, no matter how much he tried to.

“Others… the red is… t-too much,” Brian continued. “It covers… e-everything. The noise… is banging, screaming. P-pushing you… dragging you!” York marvelled at the sudden emotion in Brian’s voice. It was a sort of fearful excitement. It was the most human thing York had seen him do. He tried to focus on the tone, rather than the description.

“I felt… it rising up,” Brian whispered, his voice as light as a breeze. York stopped dead in his tracks. Brian had his back to him, but he too stopped walking. Suddenly, York was paying full attention. “It t-took over,” Brain murmured. “I just went outside… to l-look. To see… what everyone was d-doing. Th-they all… went outside. I went t-too. I… followed them.” He hesitated for a second. “It was… cold. Cold night… I had been… ch-chopping wood, for the f-fire. It was an old… house.”

Brian took another few steps forward, and York copied him, desperate to hear the rest. Brian stopped and listed from one foot to the other, as if swaying in the wind.

“S-scared it might be… dangerous,” Brian said. “Took it… with me. When I w-went… to look.” York almost didn’t want to ask, in case he interrupted the flow of the story.

“What?” he breathed.

“The… wood axe,” Brian answered darkly, flicking his eyes towards York. “Pi-picked it up, took it… with me. In case there was… danger.” York was beginning to recognise the story. He shuddered at what was coming next. “T-too late. Felt it… rising. Colour… fl-flashing. So much… noise,” Brian hissed. “Boiling… up!” He let out a low, agonised moan, screwing his eyes shut as the memory rushed through his head. “Wanted… to do… the hurt, wanted… had to! Too much… so loud, so bright!” He breathed, settling his voice back into his usual raspy monotone. “Couldn’t… stop it. Went… t-towards him. Wasn’t… thinking, couldn’t… think. Pushed down… C-couldn’t… get up.” York had heard the story before. The ending was coming. “The man… in the raincoat,” Brian moaned. “He felt it too. The… boiling… hate. He t-took… the axe. I c-couldn’t… stop. Wanted to… leave, c-couldn’t. The noise, the colours… e-e-everything, too much. He r-raised the axe… dug i-in. I felt it… go in. My sp-sp-spine. Again. A-again. Felt it… th-thought I… wouldn’t. Thought the… noise wo-would mean… no feeling. Felt it… all. The man… in the raincoat. He wouldn’t… st-stop.”

“I’m sorry,” York said, uselessly. He had no idea what you were meant to say to someone who was describing their own murder. Suddenly, Brian smiled, pulling his lips far back from his teeth. York squirmed at the sight of Brian’s smile. It wasn’t right.

“Y-you knew,” he hissed. Then, with a flourish, he stepped aside, revealing the gravestone he had been blocking during the telling of the story. York looked down. The carved name made it clear. They were standing at Brian’s grave. The dates, 1921 – 1956, completed the story. 1956, the year of the Raincoat Killer, red seeds massacre. Brian had been waiting here for fifty-three years.

“Ah…” York started, struggling for words.

“This!” Brian announced. “Y-you asked… where it… was bu-buried.” He pointed firmly at the grass beneath their feet, his finger aimed straight down. “Here it is!”

“Here’s… what?” York asked.

“My b-body!” Brian announced, voice rising in volume. A bird, alarmed by the screech, took off from the roof of the shack, fleeing into the sky. York glanced down then quickly stumbled backwards. He had been standing on the grave itself, directly over Brian’s skeleton. That idea bothered him more than the fact that he was talking to the man’s ghost. Perhaps that was the fault of horror movies. Ghosts could often be helpful things, still some shade of human. But standing on graves could lead to zombies, and those were never friendly. York would take the possibility of a ghost over a zombie any day. Even if Brian wasn’t especially friendly.

“So you are a ghost,” York said at last, stating what was by now perhaps obvious. “You did die.”

“I d-didn’t die…” Brian said. “I was… mu-mu-murdered.”

“Semantics, but all right,” York admitted. “So, Brian… can other people see you? Why is it just me?”

“You… and Zach,” Brian said. “But not… just you.”

“No?” York asked. “Who else can see you, then?” To his surprise, Brian smiled again, but it was a much more genuinely warm smile than his previous rigid smirks, which York suspected he used on purpose to be off-putting. He’d never before thought that ghosts could try too hard.

“Not… important,” Brian said. “I see… sometimes. By the trees. R-red trees. That’s… why.” Convoluted though the sentence was, York understood. Sometimes people came to collect seeds from the trees. Whether they could all see Brian or not was unclear, but he certainly saw them. Which meant he had definitely seen the killer.

“You know about these new Raincoat Killer murders,” York said. Brian didn’t argue. “You’ve seen someone come by, recently, and collect a lot of red seeds. That person is the new Raincoat Killer. Don’t you want to catch the person who’s doing this? You, Brian, you were murdered by the first Raincoat Killer! Surely you don’t want anyone else to suffer what you went through?” Brian didn’t answer for a while. He seemed to be weighing his response.

“Don’t… remember,” Brian said. “B-being… like you. Is it… good?”

“Being alive?” York sighed. “It’s… complicated. There is good and bad. Like everything.”

“Yes,” Brian said, smirking rigidly. “It is… complicated.” York was about to press him further, try and get him to answer, to just confess the name of the killer, but Brian took a step forward, towards the grave, and dropped down as if he’d fallen into an open hole. He was gone in a second, vanished. York cursed and tapped his forehead angrily. Even now, when Brian had confided the truth about himself, he refused to tell York the one thing he wanted to know above all else.

“Let’s leave him, Zach,” York muttered. “Let him stay in the ground, if that’s what he wants.”


	47. Suspicions

Chapter Forty-Seven. [ Suspicions ]

It seemed unlikely that Emily would be finished with helping George, York thought wistfully. Unfortunate, as he would like to spend the day with her, either as officers or friends. He felt more motivated when she was around. Still, moving onto practical things, he thought through his other options. He could go and see Thomas, perhaps. But there was no doubt in his mind that Thomas would be with Ushah. He wouldn’t want to be alone at the moment, after all. York assumed that Ushah had called Thomas immediately after the autopsy was finished, telling him to come and be with him. Filling him in on the latest victim of Carol’s murderer. York could go to the diner, and try not to make eye contact with Olivia, now that he knew her secret. Or worse, with Nick, whose wife had found someone else. That wasn’t appealing. Neither was the idea of stopping in at the Milk Barn and listening to Keith talk about ghosts while Lilly tried to wrestle him back on topic.

York realised, glumly, that far from the fact that everyone in Greenvale was bound to want to talk about the case, what really put him off was that everyone but him seemed to be in a couple. It was not the sort of thing that had ever particularly bothered him in the past, but today, after his feelings for Emily had come into focus, it did. Thomas and Ushah. Olivia and Diane. Keith and Lilly. Richard and Sallie, he added to the list. Carol and George, unpleasant as that had been. Not to mention the bereaved Becky, whose boyfriend was still lying in the morgue, and who he suspected might have already found someone else, if that extra bowl of cereal that day at Anna’s house had been any indication. And Harry, freshly dead as he now was, had been obsessed with his own lost love. In fact, York realised with annoyance, even the dead in Greenvale were paired up. After all, what else could you say about the ghostly couple he had encountered in the art gallery? They were lovers. It was what defined them.

“At this rate,” York muttered angrily. “We’ll end up going to the Raincoat Killer’s engagement party, Zach…” He frowned. “And if our luck keeps up, Emily won’t want to be our plus one.” York sighed. He could think of few places he wanted to be right now. The only thing he could think to do was work. After all, that was why he was here.

Back in the car and on the road a moment later, York thought to himself about the case. So far, he had not taken a great deal of direct action. Things had happened, but they had mostly happened around him. He had done research, talked to people, tried to dig up clues. He had made no arrests. That was not a good sign at this point in a case, especially one within such a small community. There were a limited number of suspects. Something he was certain of, was the fact that the killer was a part of the community. They knew too much about Greenvale, and its inhabitants, for that to be in doubt.

“There is one person, Zach,” York muttered to himself. “That we’ve suspected since near the beginning. What do you think? Are they the one?” He waited for an answer. “You know, Zach,” he went on. “This reminds me of that film, Rosemary’s Baby, from 1968. The case, I mean. I feel like we’re Rosemary. She was so sure something was wrong, right Zach? But she never did anything. And at the end, even though she was afraid something terrible was going to happen, she couldn’t stop it. Do you think this case will be like that? Are we not doing enough?” York paused for a moment, then carried on in a lower voice. “Do you remember what Brian said, Zach? Not just now, but before. That when we found the killer… we wouldn’t be happy. What do you think he meant by that?”

York kept driving, the various questions nagging at him. He could have done more by now, he was sure. He should have arrested someone, or considered it. But he had no concrete evidence. And he was well aware that if he tried to arrest someone with no evidence, it wouldn’t stick. He had seen the occasional case fall completely to pieces, even when the killer’s identity had been certain in everyone’s minds, just because there wasn’t enough to say at the trial. It had always bothered him. He wasn’t going to take any chances with this. That said, inaction was getting him nowhere. It was time to confront someone. At the very least, he might scare out some truth. He was barely thinking about where he was going as he drove. When he realised he was parking, and looked at where he was, he smirked.

“Here, Zach?” he asked aloud. “I suppose you’re right. Let’s go and take action.” York got out of the car, walking over to the building he felt Zach had brought him to. The doors loomed ahead of him. The memory of his last time here teased at the back of his mind, but he ignored it. It was time to take action. He pushed open the door to the art gallery, walking inside. In the foyer, he saw Diane standing and talking with Forrest Kaysen. Both of them turned to look at him as he entered, immediately cutting off their conversation. He approached them, smiling slightly.

“Hello again, Diane,” he said politely. “And Kaysen.”

“Well hey, York!” Kaysen said breezily. “Oh, I tell ya. I heard about Harry’s, let’s just say, accident. Nasty sounding stuff! When are you gonna stop dragging your heels and catch that killer, eh? Can’t have this keep happening, can you?” York frowned. If Kaysen had heard the news about Harry’s death, he certainly wasn’t acting at all aggrieved. True, he probably hadn’t known him well, but it still felt inappropriate to talk as if the whole thing was a big joke.

“Soon,” York said uncertainly, as if he was no longer sure that was what he was doing. “Soon, Kaysen.” Despite Forrest’s uniformly cheerful persona, York felt that he was the only person in Greenvale who he had come to know less and less the longer he was here. While he wasn’t on friendly terms with everyone in town, he honestly felt he had come to know everyone involved in the case, on some level. Forrest was the exception. York found himself unwilling to remain on a first name basis with the man, and it almost bothered him just to hear his own name in Kaysen’s rigidly jolly voice. The word York suddenly felt wrong somehow when Kaysen said it.

“Yes, Harry,” Diane said smoothly. “How terrible it is, that another person has been killed behind your back, Agent.”

“Did you know Harry, Diane?” York asked.

“I’ve sold him some paintings in the past,” she said, shrugging her shoulders in a carefully fluid motion. “We weren’t friendly.”

“He bought some of these paintings? I wouldn’t have thought he’d like pictures of trees,” York said coolly. Diane didn’t respond.

“Gee,” Forrest said. “I suppose I should be going. I got lunch on the mind. You understand.” He strode off, calling for his dog as he went. York saw it hurrying after him, silent as ever.

“Diane,” York said, firmer now that they were alone. “Have you seen Becky lately? I want to know how these deaths are affecting her. But then you know that, and you never seem willing to talk.”

“How right you are,” Diane agreed, smiling dreamily. “What a fantastic deduction.”

“I have a feeling she’s doing better than ever,” York continued. “Maybe Quint wasn’t a very good boyfriend for her after all. He seems harmless enough, but he certainly wasn’t ambitious, and Becky seems smarter than that. She has plans to go off to college at some point, which I’m sure you know. That isn’t typically something people do with their high school boyfriends still attached. I’m sure she’s already moving on with her life. In time, she may even come to see this as a good thing.”

“If you say so,” Diane said quietly.

“And Carol,” York went on. “Carol was fighting with Becky right up until the end. I don’t think anyone has any doubt about the fact that Becky is glad Carol’s gone. It just seems strange to me that these murders have benefited your sister, Diane.”

“And how,” Diane said, light amusement in her voice, “does Harry Stewart’s death benefit my sister, exactly…?”

“I don’t think it does,” York admitted. “It’s a shift in the pattern. But I’m coming to realise that Harry Stewart was not a particularly kind man, and that there were skeletons in his past that may have come back to haunt him. He did a lot of damage, you see. To someone in particular.”

“Who is that?” Diane asked. “Though I trust you haven’t come here just to share gossip.”

“George,” York revealed. “He did a great amount of damage to George.” Diane scoffed.

“That does not seem likely to me, Agent,” she said. “I think George can take care of himself.”

“So did I, at first,” York admitted. “When I first came to Greenvale, he seemed the picture of strength. But I’ve noticed that isn’t true. George is actually desperate for someone to confide in, from what I’ve experienced. A friend, perhaps. You’re George’s friend, aren’t you, Diane…?” He left the question hanging. He watched as a flash of anger crossed Diane’s face, before melting. She managed to control her stoic expression.

“Not particularly,” she said.

“Now, that isn’t true,” York said, unable to resist the urge to grin a little. He was feeling pleased with himself. “I heard you mention your friendship when you came to ask him to stop Nick from following you. Actually, now that your friendship with Nick is over, I imagine you want to cling tighter than ever to the friends you have. I know I would.”

“Well, we are thankfully not the same person,” Diane sniffed. York sensed he was bothering her.

“I think one of George’s friends,” York said. “Someone he had confided in, might be angry with what Harry had done to him. It would be possible to find out the truth, I think, from records. Someone may have gone looking for it, after hearing George’s regrets. Just trying to find that person he was looking for, as a favour. To help a friend.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, or what it has to do with Harry or George,” Diane snapped. She was definitely bothered, York thought.

“Diane,” York said levelly, savouring the moment. “Are you the Raincoat Killer?”

“That’s a joke, I assume!” Diane said in a shocked gasp. But she certainly wasn’t laughing. Neither was York, though he did allow himself a small smile of success. “You’re not remotely serious, Agent,” Diane added.

“I’m afraid I’ll need you to answer the question, Diane,” York said coolly. She stared at him, all pretence vanished, raw anger on her face. Her hands balled into strained fists by her side.

“I am not, on any level, in any conceivable universe, the Raincoat Killer,” she hissed.

“No?” York asked again. “Then where were you when Quint was murdered?”

“That was two weeks ago!” Diane snarled. “I don’t remember.”

“But you seem to remember what day it happened,” York noted. Diane scowled at him, lips twitching angrily. “How about when Carol was killed?”

“I don’t even know when she was killed, Agent,” Diane hissed. “How can I possibly answer these questions? I don’t know!”

“All right,” York conceded, still wearing his cocky grin. “Then, do you have an alibi for Harry’s death? It happened last night. Where were you?”

“Where was I last night?” Diane repeated. “It’s none of your business where I was! I’m entitled to my own private life, and if you want me to answer any more of these inane, spiteful, and frankly idiotic questions, then you’ll have to arrest me. And I don’t think you have the guts for that.”

“I understand, Diane,” York said, shrugging his shoulders widely. “You make some good points.” Diane breathed a sigh, relieved by his words. York was still smiling. He reached under his jacket, behind his gun holster, for what he kept clipped there in case of this very situation. He removed the handcuffs and walked around Diane, pulling her hands back as he did so.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Diane snarled, in a rare total break of her composure. York snapped the handcuffs in place.

“Arresting you,” he said. “At your suggestion.”

“That is not what I meant!” she snapped. “What evidence are you arresting me with? Do you think I won’t be going straight to a lawyer?”

“Let me see,” York mused. “You openly disliked Quint. You refused to comply when I asked you to talk to your sister about his death. You fought with Carol shortly before her murder, over a man. And you refuse to give me an alibi for Harry’s death. That sounds like enough to start to me.”

“This will not stick, Agent Francis,” Diane snarled at him, though her anger was less impressive in handcuffs. York nodded.

“We should get over to the sheriff’s department,” he said. “I want to be in time for lunch.”

♦ ♦ ♦

A short while later, York was standing in the basement of the sheriff’s department, in front of a cell containing a very angry Diane Ames, with Emily and George by his side. Emily let out a sigh, resting a hand on her forehead. George was furious.

“You’ve really managed to impress me, Agent York!” George growled. “I thought you were just incompetent, but this latest hash job shows you’re completely suicidal!”

“Now, George, I know you don’t agree with me,” York said calmly. “But I have to try and close this case. It’s taking too long.”

“Yes!” George groaned. “You have to close the case by finding the actual killer! Not by arresting anyone who wouldn’t kiss your ass, just because they were mean to you.”

“York… I’m not sure,” Emily said. “Do you really think… Diane?”

“I can hear you all,” Diane said from within her cell. “And this doesn’t exactly look good for you, Agent. I have a feeling I’ll be going home soon.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Diane, but I think a judge would rather hear from me,” York said. “Emily, I hope you’ll just trust me for now.”

“I will…” she said uncertainly. “If this is what you think.” York nodded. He had suspected Diane for days now, although he hadn’t felt he really had enough to pin her with. The fight with Carol was a nice touch. It was tangible. Still, he knew the investigation wasn’t over. He needed more.

Before anyone could say anything else, a door opened up above and, a moment later, Olivia came running into the room, cardigan billowing behind her, shoes clacking fiercely on the stone floor. She rushed past them all to Diane’s cell, covering her mouth in horror when she saw her. It was only a few seconds later that York realised Nick had followed her in. He was standing sullenly at the back of the room, arms folded.

“Diane!” Olivia squeaked. “I am so sorry… I came as soon as I could.”

“George, did you let Diane make a phone call?” York asked levelly.

“Of course. She’s not a prisoner,” George said, scowling. “Ugh. I mean, she has rights. And she shouldn’t even be here!”

“Oh, Diane, what’s going on?” Olivia asked, wide-eyed. “I just heard you were arrested!”

“Yes,” Diane said coldly, looking at York. “For murder. Apparently, I’m the Raincoat Killer.”

“What!” Olivia cried out. “But you… of course you’re not!”

“I know that,” Diane said. “But it’s all right,” she added, warming. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I hope so…” Olivia mumbled. “I know there was another murder last night. But you couldn’t have done it! Diane, I know that you’re innocent.” Diane smiled at her through the bars.

“Thank you, ‘Livia,” she murmured. “I’m glad I have you.” She leant forward, pressing her face close to the cell bars, and Olivia, with a final, lasting look at Nick, leaned in and kissed her. George coughed uncomfortably and turned away, muttering that he had paperwork to get through. He walked off in the direction of the stairs. Emily politely averted her eyes. York looked at Nick. He saw the man narrow his eyes and glare down at the floor, but noticed he said nothing. The truth was finally out, all the way out, and there was no hiding from it anymore.

“Diane isn’t the killer,” Olivia said, when they had separated. “We spent last night together. She can’t have killed anyone.”

“You were together all night?” York asked. “Doing what?”

“You’re a big boy, Agent, you can work it out,” Diane said playfully. Emily suppressed a giggle.

“You’ll both understand that an alibi from a lover isn’t considered airtight,” York replied. “So I can’t take your word for it, Olivia.”

“You may as well,” Nick said suddenly, from behind them. “After all, Olivia’s suddenly decided that honesty is the best policy.”

“Nick…” Olivia said sadly.

“Everyone always says they want to know the truth,” Nick sighed. “But then, suddenly, you have to deal with it. There’s no more running. Everyone just has to… deal with it.”

“You shouldn’t have come, Nick…” Olivia sighed. “I would have come alone.”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” Nick said. “It’s my business too. We’re a three now, aren’t we? Or, for now, I should say. I know how this kind of story turns out.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Olivia mumbled.

“You were happy to talk about it this morning!” Nick snapped. “When you finally came clean about everything! I guess having your girlfriend dragged in on murder charges changes things. So tell me, Olivia. If I was the one in prison right now, would you have even bothered to come and visit?”

“Yes…” Olivia said quietly. “I would have.”

“I’m glad,” Nick said sourly. “I’ll be in the car.” He went to leave. Olivia glanced between him and Diane, finally choosing to follow him out.

“I’ll come back soon. I know you’re innocent!” she said as she went. Diane smiled after her, immediately dropping it when she was gone.

“All right, Agent,” she said. “I understand that you’re trying to make some progress. So I’ll offer you a deal. I’ll provide some delicate information that I think you may find useful, if you’ll let me go home. Is that a deal?”

“That depends on the information, Diane,” York said, though his interest was piqued. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that Olivia’s alibi might turn out to be genuine, and he would take what he could get. “But I’ll certainly consider it.”

“Very well,” Diane said dreamily. “Now that my close friend the sheriff has left the room. I know something about him that might help you.”

“What’s that?” Emily asked. “And you know, it may have made you look more innocent if you’d told us this earlier, Diane.” York appreciated her support, even if it did turn out to be misplaced.

“This information also concerns the dearly departed Carol MacLaine,” Diane said. “Perhaps I didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead. Is that so terribly uncharacteristic?”

“Yes,” York said. “But go on.”

“Well,” Diane said. “Carol and George were very playful, when they were together. George has some eclectic interests in particular, and I suppose in a disturbingly crass way they were made for each other.” She seemed amused by the suggestion.

“If by that, you mean that George took advantage of a much younger woman,” York agreed coldly. “Then yes.”

“Didn’t he just?” Diane laughed dreamily. “I suppose that is his raison d’etre. Taking advantage. How convenient, for him to find himself in such a position of power.”

“Get to the point,” York sighed. He wasn’t interested in hearing another retelling of Carol and George’s relationship.

“Oh, Agent,” Diane laughed. “Did you think George’s life began and ended with Carol MacLaine? My point, if you’d care to understand it, is that you’ve barely scratched the surface. George had many more… interests. You know that the sheriff and I have distracted each other on occasion, but if I’m honest, and I take no offence from it, I don’t think I’m really his type.”

“What do you mean?” York asked, bristling. He shot a quick glance at Emily. If she came into this at all, he would not forgive Diane. He wanted Emily to remain as far away from George as possible. Even hearing their names in the same story felt unsafely close.

“Carol MacLaine,” Diane continued, almost sounding bored, as if she’d heard all this too many times before. “Wanted to impress the sheriff. I think she knew he didn’t truly love her, the way she wanted. That’s why she fought with me, and why she wanted to give him anything he could even think to want. And what trouble she went to! Tell me, have you been to the Galaxy of Terror recently?”

“It’s closed,” York pointed out. Diane smiled condescendingly.

“That bar has a secret,” she said. “Somewhere… in the back. I haven’t personally visited. Something that Carol worked very hard on, for her dear George. He told me about it. I think he found it quite funny, all the effort she went to for him. It was pathetic to him. She was pathetic to him. I expect her death has changed that, but still. It won’t help her get what she wanted, will it?”

“Diane, this is inappropriate,” York said coldly. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Yes, Diane,” Emily added. “What did Carol do?”

“She gave him what he wanted,” Diane said with dark amusement. “You’ll find it in a back room. There should be a key somewhere, she liked to have it on hand.” Something clicked with York. He had indeed found a key, in Carol’s dressing room. He still had it in his pocket.

“We’ll go and investigate,” York said. “And then, if this information is useful, we’ll consider letting you go.” Diane raised her eyebrows, smiling airily.

“One more thing,” she said. “When you inevitably find it all and ask yourselves ‘why?’” She paused for effect. “Then, you may want to go and pay my sister a visit.”


	48. Coda

Chapter Forty-Eight. [ Coda ]

The Galaxy of Terror looked imposing as it was now, closed up, cold and empty. All the life had long since been drained out of it, and it already had that haunted quality that abandoned buildings enjoy. York and Emily hadn’t rushed over. They both had a strong suspicion they wouldn’t like what they found. They had got the key to the front door from Thomas, who was at his apartment after all. York had noticed he was holding a mop when he opened the door, and suspected that Thomas was slowly bringing himself to clean out Carol’s apartment. Or at least take care of some of the mess she’d left behind. They’d told Thomas they were doing some routine investigation, left with the key, and driven over to the bar without talking much. The weight of their task made conversation difficult.

“He looked better,” Emily said, as York slowly inserted the key in the door. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” York agreed. “He has more energy than he did.”

“Still,” Emily sighed. “I can’t imagine what Thomas is going to do now. He really needs someone to be there for him.” York bit his tongue. While he wanted to mention Thomas’ new relationship to Emily, he understood that it wasn’t his secret to share.

“He does,” York said. “At least we’re going to remain good friends to him.” Emily smiled at the thought. York pushed the door open and they were met with the stale air inside the Galaxy of Terror. Emily screwed up her nose. If she was sensitive to smell, York thought, he didn’t know how she could bear her own cooking.

The two of them walked in, side by side. Emily began walking towards the dressing room, but York shook his head. It wasn’t what they were looking for. Diane’s suggestion of a back room stuck in his mind. Behind the bar, he could see now, was a floor-length red velvet curtain. He had had no reason to pay attention to it before, but now it seemed fairly likely it was concealing a door. He walked behind the bar and Emily followed. When he pulled back the curtain, there was indeed a door.

“Good thinking, York,” Emily said. “And the key?”

“I have it here,” he said, removing it from his pocket. “The key from Carol’s dressing room. She kept it hidden. Let’s find out why.” He tried the unusual key in the door, and found that it fit. The door opened inward with a creak, into a short, dark hallway. There didn’t appear to be any light switch, so Emily held the door open as York stepped inside. He could feel his heart beating hard. Moments like this always felt like the beginning of the climax.

At the end of the small hallway, there was what seemed to be a wall, mounted with a deer’s head. York couldn’t tell if it was real or fake. The hallway already smelt too musty to make any kind of judgement. He walked towards it. Then, though barely in the faint light, he noticed a handle. It was another door. He pushed it, and the door opened silently. Beyond this door was a set of stairs, leading downward into a basement. York looked back at Emily.

“I can’t go alone,” he said, smiling half-heartedly.

“Hold on,” Emily said. For a moment, she let the door go, and York was plunged into darkness. He thought he heard a clicking in his ears, and hummed to himself, willing it away. If any shadows decided to appear now, it would be hard to explain. Not to mention, he feared how they might possibly effect Emily. Thankfully, she returned a moment later, flicking on a large flashlight she had found beneath the bar.

“Good thought, Emily,” York breathed.

“I guess they were prepared for emergencies,” she said. If only, York thought. Carol hadn’t been prepared for that final emergency. Though the corridor was slim, they managed to walk elbow to elbow down into the basement, Emily holding the flashlight so that the beam shot ahead of them. There was one final door at the base of the stairs, which York opened for them. When they entered the basement, a light clicked on automatically.

The room was round, cut out of the stone under the Galaxy of Terror with little concern for aesthetics. Though that only applied to the material of the room itself. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble decorating it. The floor was covered in red carpets and cushions, and there were red drapes on the wall. Old-fashioned candlesticks sprung up from the floor in various places, and there was a leather sofa roughly in the centre of the room, beside which was a record player, with a disk waiting in place. All of that would have been an acceptable, if tacky, way to decorate a basement, but the real horror was in the accessories. Old iron cages sat to the sides of the room, tall, imposing fixtures that looked almost ancient. They must have been difficult to find. Rather less difficult, but equally upsetting, were the various shackles and restraints and other pieces of paraphernalia that littered the basement.

“Oh god,” Emily mumbled. York regretted the fact that she had come with him, though it was foolish. She had just as much right as him to see this awful place. She was a police officer, after all. Still though, he wished he could protect her from it. Keep the dirty secret from entering her orbit.

“This is what Carol made for George…?” York asked the room.

“No,” Emily sighed. “This is what George made for himself. Carol just gave him the basement.” York made himself look around again. In his experience at the FBI, serial killers did not tend to have the kind of exotic lairs they were found in on television. Rather, you were more likely to find a serial killer in a grimy apartment, or their mother’s house, than a basement filled with all their mementos. But, if he hadn’t personally known that George was innocent, he would have declared this a rare, skin-crawling exception.

“I think…” York muttered. “That we need to talk to Becky.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Emily was clearly shaken by what she’d seen in the basement, York thought, on the drive over to Becky’s house. She didn’t want to say anything, but he suspected it was stewing in her, what they had found. Another sign of who George really was. Another reason he would have to face up to the consequences of his actions when all this was done. He couldn’t remain as sheriff, surely, York thought. It wouldn’t be right. Not after everything.

“So… Emily,” York said carefully. “Do you like Hitchcock?”

“York,” she said suddenly, staring straight ahead in the passenger seat. “After we talk to Becky… can we go and get a drink together? I just…” She sighed. “I need one.”

“Of course,” York said, suppressing his excitement at the idea. It wouldn’t do any good to break into a smile when they reached their destination. The Swery 65 should just be opening by the time they were done with Becky.

They reached the house and got out of the car. There were lights on inside. Becky wasn’t working today, York thought. That was good. He would have hated to try and have this conversation in the back of the Milk Barn, with people watching. He had a hunch it was going to be upsetting. When he knocked, it took a while for anyone to answer.

“Oh… hello,” Becky said when she appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a hooded jacket and a pair of jeans that looked like they had been found on her bedroom floor that morning, but otherwise she looked better than she had in all the time York had known her. Her hair was clean, she hadn’t been crying, and she even seemed more able to look him in the eye. A definite improvement.

“Hello, Becky,” York said. “Can we come in?” Becky looked past him at Emily, noting the presence of two police officers.

“Uh, I didn’t know that guy who died yesterday,” she said. “If it’s… about that.”

“It actually isn’t,” York said. “It’s about something else. We just want to ask a couple of questions.”

“Okay… if you have to,” Becky said unwillingly. She moved back from the door and York and Emily followed her inside. The three of them walked through to her bedroom, where she had been watching a film on the big television. It was paused, and York could only guess about it from the static image of a man and a woman about to press their faces together. He had no idea what film it was, but it looked to be light and distracting. Becky sat down on the edge of her bed and waited.

“Becky,” York said. “I’m sorry to ask you about this. I can only apologise in advance. I want to know about the basement, under the Galaxy of Terror.”

“The what?!” Becky gasped, freezing up immediately. “I… no, like, that’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything useful.”

“I’m sure you do, Becky,” York gently pressed. “I know it’s difficult.”

“Yes,” Emily added, making herself smile supportively. “It must be very hard, but we need to know what happened. Something happened there, didn’t it?”

“Who told you?” Becky said quietly. She wrapped her arms around herself in a makeshift hug. “Who was it?”

“Diane,” York said, after trying to decide whether it was right to tell her. “I think George told her about that room, but I don’t know if she knew what happened there.”

“She never said anything…” Becky muttered. It dawned on York that Becky’s comment meant that she and her sister spoke more often than he had been led to believe. Even if their relationship was strained, they weren’t completely alienated after all.

“Maybe she thought you wouldn’t want to talk about it,” Emily suggested kindly. It was not the impression York had got from Diane’s tone, but then again, he was realising he couldn’t read Diane as well as he thought.

“Yeah, I guess,” Becky mumbled. “Oh man… that place is… it’s so fucked up.” She was going to talk. York was glad, although he wasn’t looking forward to what she was going to say. “Carol made it for… for her boyfriend, I guess. Her brother helped her set it up, she said.” Thomas, York thought sadly. Though it made sense. There was no way he couldn’t have known about it. “The… him,” Becky went on, obviously referring to George. “He told them what to do, I think. He had ideas for it. I don’t know. Carol is the one who set it all up. She’s the one who made it.”

“Yes?” York said carefully. “And?”

“And, like… Carol told us about it,” Becky said. “She wanted us to go hang out there, but she made it seem like this really cool, grown-up place where she would play music and we could… drink and stuff. Way different to what it was.” Things were beginning to slot into place for York. The game Anna had tried to tell him about. The thing Thomas had told him that Carol ‘almost did’. It was starting to make sense. “So anyway, we went down there one time, and it was really weird,” Becky finished. She would no longer look at either York or Emily.

“What happened, Becky?” Emily asked gently. “It’s okay to tell us. The sheriff won’t find out.”

“It was just… did you see it?” Becky asked.

“Yes,” York told her. She nodded automatically.

“Right, yeah,” she said. “It wasn’t like how Carol said it would be. I hate that place. It’s so gross. It was dumb to listen to her. Carol’s such a liar. She was always a liar, and always being mean. Even when there was no reason to be! I know Anna liked her more, but I hated being her friend. I’m glad she’s gone.”

“Becky, I’m sure you don’t mean that,” Emily said.

“Yeah?” Becky said sharply. “Well I do! I’m glad she died, and I hope she stays dead! I never want to see her again! Knowing Carol, she’d still find a way to come back. Like, if there’s an afterlife, or whatever, I bet she’s already scheming how to come and fuck me over one last time from hell. Maybe she’s… maybe she’s even with Quint, now. That would be so like her.” Becky let out a loud, angry growl. “It would be just like her! For her to get murdered and still screw me over! I hate her! Fuck Carol! She can just… fuck off!”

“Becky…” York began.

“Look, I know, it’s not nice,” Becky said, clearing her throat. “But if you knew some of the stuff she did, you’d agree with me, okay? She wasn’t a good person. I know she didn’t like… actually deserve to die, sure, but I’m still not sorry about it.”

“Then tell us what she did to you,” Emily suggested. Becky looked at her, eyes narrowed, face pouting angrily. She thought it over, then she got to her feet.

“No!” she snapped. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore. I told you about that place you wanted to know about. Carol’s secret club, like we’re all twelve and that creepy basement is our clubhouse. I don’t want to talk about it again, and you can’t make me, so just go. Get out.” She pointed them towards the door. York was impressed, for a moment, by the family resemblance. Apparently no-one told an Ames woman that she had to talk.

“Thank you, then,” he said, and went for the door. Emily hovered for a moment longer, as if Becky may yet have something more to add, but Becky’s face remained stubborn, and she said nothing else. Emily followed York out, and they began walking to the car together.

“Well,” Emily said, about to state the obvious. “That isn’t the whole story.”

“No, it’s not,” York agreed. “But I don’t think Becky wants to tell us the whole story, do you?”

“She certainly doesn’t,” Emily muttered. They climbed into the car, and York tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

“So,” he said. “Shall we go for that drink?”

“If the bar’s open,” Emily said, smiling weakly. “Just… let’s not go to the Galaxy of Terror. Agreed?” York agreed.


	49. Evening Drinks

Chapter Forty-Nine. [ Evening Drinks ]

The Swery 65 was open, but hardly busy. They were early, and York imagined that with a third murder having taken place less than twenty-four hours ago, plenty of people would want to be at home with their families. Speaking of families, he thought, Richard and Sallie were together again. Sallie had a seat at the far end of the bar, and was staring at her beau over a cocktail. York decided to say hello before he got on with his own evening, letting Emily go and reserve a table.

“Hello Richard, Sallie,” he said. Richard nodded politely at him, but Sallie seemed less than pleased to see him.

“Another death?” she announced. “Look at that! The FBI must really be overstretched, if the only person they could send to investigate Quint’s murder was the guy they keep busy chasing UFOs!” Not the most original insult, York thought, but he understood why she was upset.

“Sallie… come on,” Richard muttered.

“No, it’s all right,” York said. “I know this has been a trying experience for all of you.”

“Yeah,” Richard agreed. For him more than most, York thought.

“Did you come to question us?” Sallie asked lazily. She seemed especially confrontational, York noticed. Though he suspected she had been drinking. Again. “Well, we were at Richard’s place. We didn’t see anything, hear anything, or anything anything. So you can go now.” She took a triumphant sip of her cocktail.

“Actually…” York said, putting on an awkward smile. “I’m just here with a friend.” He gestured towards Emily with a nod of his head. Richard grinned back at him.

“Hey, good for you,” he said under his breath. “Have a nice evening, you two. Shall I bring over some wine?” York appreciated the thought. He was glad that Richard had warmed up to him. He wouldn’t have blamed him if he never had.

“Sure, thank you, Richard,” he said. “Have a good evening, as well.” Before York could go and sit down, Anna appeared from the direction of the bathrooms. She looked up at him in surprise.

“Hello, Anna,” York said cheerfully. She smiled and gave him a small wave, before coming and sitting down next to her mother. He didn’t envy her company for the night. A part of him wondered if he should ask her some follow up questions to what Becky had said, but he decided against it. It wasn’t a good time. He had plans, and besides. Sallie would have bitten his head off.

York went over to the table Emily had picked out, and sat down opposite her, smiling to himself. She looked back at him with a similar smile and a set of raised eyebrows.

“What do you look so happy about?” she said, through her smirk. “A man died last night.”

“He did,” York agreed, grinning. “It’s very tragic. I suppose I’m just not thinking about it right now.”

“Oh yeah?” Emily laughed. “That’s terrible. You should be grieving.”

“I am. I’m in mourning,” York protested, laughing. “I’m glad we can mourn together.” Emily looked away with the grin on her face, colour in her cheeks. York felt like he was floating, on his back, in a lake. Warm water dabbing at his ankles and wrists, sun overhead. He barely existed for a moment.

Richard came to the table to drop off the wine and two glasses, then left, saying another quick goodnight. Emily took the bottle and poured, filling each glass half way. York took his and sipped. It was better than beer.

“Do you know anything about wine?” Emily asked him.

“No, not really,” York said. “I’m afraid I’m not very cultured.”

“Except for movies,” Emily argued, grinning.

“Yes, apart from that,” York laughed. “What about you?”

“Me?” Emily laughed. “I think I know even less about wine than I do about food!”

“Negative numbers,” York chuckled. Emily tutted at him, taking a drink from her glass.

“And what about you?” she said pointedly. “With that disgusting taste in sandwiches! How could you even manage to choke down that awful thing from the diner? What’s in it again? Turkey, jam… is it chocolate?”

“Cereal,” York corrected. “Turkey, jam, and cereal.” Personally, he didn’t think he’d be eating another sinner’s sandwich anytime soon. That vision in the art gallery still stuck with him. He couldn’t imagine picking up another one after seeing it offered by the branches of that wooden tree.

“Gross!” Emily laughed. “Way worse than my cooking!”

“Do you really think so?” York asked dryly. She stuck out her tongue at him, childishly, and he laughed, grinning from ear to ear. So far, he couldn’t have asked for a better evening. “You know, Emily,” he said. “That night when we watched War of the Worlds together… that was just perfect.” Emily’s smile softened, and she looked down shyly at her drink.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“When I came to Greenvale,” York continued, voice wobbling slightly with the effort of sincerity. “I didn’t expect… to connect to anyone. It so rarely happens during cases. Admittedly, I usually end up working in the city, where things are less personal, and I don’t often spend this long working in one place, but still. Things have felt different this time. I think Greenvale’s become… special to me.”

“It’s that kind of place,” Emily agreed. Her hand idly twirled her wine glass in place, round and round, by the stem. “I feel the same. I don’t think I could imagine living in Seattle now.”

“I can hardly imagine going home,” York admitted. “And I’ve only been here for two weeks. The place really seems to grow on you.”

“It does…” Emily sighed happily. “It’s my home. I hope this whole… thing, isn’t going to change the place. It would be so sad if it did.”

“I don’t imagine so,” York said, though he wasn’t sure. When a town got a reputation, it could be hard to shake. He doubted anyone went to visit Columbine for the views. It occurred to him at last that perhaps this was part of why the original Raincoat Killer’s story, and the massacre, had been swept under the rug. It was unfortunate that no such thing would happen this time, in a way.

“I hope so,” Emily said. “Greenvale deserves to heal.”

“It does,” York agreed. “Some of the people I’ve met here deserve that more than anything. It’s strange meeting so many good people in one place, at one time.” He hesitated, unsure if the next thing was the right thing to say. “Emily… I don’t really have a lot of friends back home. I’d actually say that I don’t have any. It’s just me, and Zach. So meeting people here has been important to me. Thomas, Ushah… and you.”

“Well, I’ve had to reassess my own friend situation lately,” Emily admitted. “I thought I knew George… Hell, I thought I knew Thomas, too! And Carol. Olivia?! Not to mention Diane! If you’re right about her…”

“I don’t know that I am,” York laughed awkwardly. “And her information was good. Maybe in the morning we’ll have to let her go.”

“I hope George brought her some dinner,” Emily said. “Normally Thomas does that sort of thing. I suppose he’d remember, seeing as how they’re friends.”

“Yes,” York agreed, grimacing. “Good friends.” Emily laughed humourlessly at the reminder.

“Do you think Diane cares about Becky?” she asked suddenly. “I mean, if she knew about George, and Carol, and still let her walk into that… place.”

“I didn’t,” York confessed. “But I do now. I think they’re closer than I thought. Life just… hasn’t been good to that family. It’s hard for them to talk about it. I suppose, when they look at each other, they just see their parents.”

“Frightening…” Emily sighed. “I hope Becky doesn’t remember all of that. I know Diane has never forgiven their father. I don’t blame her.”

“No,” York agreed. “Maybe now she and George will have that in common.”

“Harry!” Emily gasped. “Can you believe that? Harry… George’s father. Why didn’t he say anything? Why did he just walk away?”

“I don’t think Harry was a man who appreciated the difficult things in life,” York said stiffly. “He left George with a terrible mother, never tried to contact him again –”

“And _replaced_ him!” Emily cried. “That’s the part that gets me. When did he decide that was a good idea? Poor Michael. Imagine living with a father like that.” Suddenly Emily sighed to herself, taking another drink. “At least my father just replaced me with work…” she said quietly. York realised the topic may have touched on a painful memory. He recalled her telling him about her mother, who had died when she was a teenager, and her father’s rather stilted emotional range following on from it.

“Here’s to those of us who raised ourselves,” York said, lifting his glass. Emily looked up, and a sad smile crept onto her face. She toasted with him, and they both sipped.

“I wish I could talk to my mother again,” she said sadly. “Just once. I think she would have been proud of me, and I’d love to hear her say it.”

“I know how you feel, Emily,” York said softly. “I would do anything for one more day with my mother. Even if it was just to ask her what happened.” The conversation lulled for a while, not because neither of them knew what to say, but because they knew they didn’t need to say anything. Emily refilled her glass, sighing quietly to herself.

“I hope Thomas recovers from all this,” she said wistfully. “I’ve always liked him. It’s hard not to, isn’t it? He’s so sweet and cheerful. I think he deserves to be happy.” York couldn’t bite his tongue anymore. He had to tell her. She deserved to know that Thomas was being looked after.

“Thomas is seeing someone,” York blurted out. Emily gasped, eyes widening in surprise.

“Who?” she asked.

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” York admitted regretfully. “It’s… a recent development, and I’d hate to jinx it, but things seem to be going well. He’s happy. They’re happy.”

“I’m so pleased,” Emily said, smiling widely, warmly. “He deserves that.” York smiled back. He agreed. He was glad Emily knew this, at least, so she could stop worrying quite so much. “I wonder how everyone else will recover…” she added.

“Well, Richard,” York said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Has Sallie. I suppose they’ll be moving forward together as a family. Trying to pick up the pieces. George is going to have bigger problems on his mind when this case is over. As for Michael… I’m not sure.”

“He doesn’t seem like he’ll do very well alone,” Emily sighed. “Can you picture him up in that huge house? All alone?”

“No,” York said. “At least he’s at the hotel for now. I wonder if Polly’s succeeded in fattening him up yet.” Emily looked at him uncertainly, and laughed.

“I don’t think I want to know!” she giggled. “That’s Polly, though. She’s terrible. I expect she’s flirted with you, a lot?”

“Uh, I don’t know about that,” York said, aware that his cheeks were probably turning pink. “She has… poor hearing.”

“Actually,” Emily said, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t think her hearing is as bad as she pretends it is. I think she just likes to have fun with it.”

“Oh,” York said, definitely reddening. He remembered plenty of times when Polly had made allusions which he had assumed were the result of her mishearing him. He hoped Emily was wrong, but she was, after all, a good detective.

“Yeah,” Emily laughed. “Well, don’t worry now. You should be off the hook if you’ve brought her someone younger to flirt with.”

“Emily Wyatt!” York said, in mock shock. “Polly is a sweet, dear old woman. She is not the… withered siren that you paint her as!”

“Don’t be jealous,” Emily giggled. “You still have Fiona at the hospital to find you charming.”

“And Lilly Ingram…” York mumbled, patting at his face and feeling the hot sting under his fingers. This was not the sort of thing he usually talked about. With Emily, especially, it made him blush.

“Lilly!” Emily laughed. “Yes, I should have warned you. She can really go for the kill sometimes, though Keith never seems to object.” She smiled warmly. “I think they’re really happy, actually. They seem to be so in love, and they’re never second-guessing each other. It must be so nice. Still in love after being married for years.”

“I’d like that one day,” York said, more to himself than anyone.

“Me too,” Emily agreed. The two of them accidentally caught the other’s eye, glancing away and laughing, awkwardly, in embarrassment. “Not that… I date much,” Emily said quickly. “It’s hard in a small town. You end up knowing everyone and, well. I don’t know.”

“Being on the move with work, it’s, uh, difficult,” York agreed. “I’ve always found. I work a lot, so I don’t spend enough time at home, and then… it gets on top of you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Emily agreed, taking another drink. “I understand.” There was another silence, this one more weighted than before. York could feel his heart beating hard, and wondered if Emily could hear it. He hoped he wasn’t sweating. He finished his own drink, struggling for a topic that would move them away from flirting, and dating, and possible happy futures. It was far too much pressure.

“My favourite movie,” York said, mumbling slightly. “Is Ladyhawke. I’ve watched it for years. I tend to mostly watch classics, and horror movies… for the stories, and the special effects, and even just to laugh about the way the police handle things. Ladyhawke is different. There’s something about the love story that’s always touched me. The two lovers who rise up against evil forces, fighting to be together, even when they can’t look each other in the eye. They’re at the centre of it all, and it’s up to them to break the curse that keeps them apart. The story is tragic, but it all pays off in a happy ending. So it’s worth it in the end.”

“I know,” Emily said, smiling gently. “I’ve seen it.”

“You like Ladyhawke!” York beamed. “It’s always meant so much to me. I think I first saw it with my grandparents, a while after… a while after my parents died.”

“Yeah…” Emily said. “I know what you mean.” She paused for a while, thinking something over. “When I came to your hotel room the other night,” she said. “I don’t think I said it, but I found it so… touching, that you told me all that. What you told me about your parents and… and Zach. You really trusted me. I just wanted to thank you, I suppose.”

“I’m glad I found someone I could trust that much,” York said softly. “I meant it. I told you things I’ve never told anyone else.”

“I know you meant it,” Emily said. “Thank you.” She stared across the table at him. Her eyes were very blue, York thought. Bright, with a little tiny bit of green. They were the same shade as the lapping shores of Lake Knowledge the day they had found Carol’s body, as the cold, metal interiors of the morgue where they had spent more time than he ever planned, or as the pair of pyjamas he had been wearing the infamous day he went downstairs and saw his father for the last time. So many bad memories. And yet, he thought, with Emily next to him, they didn’t seem so bad. It said a lot, he realised, that he had come to Greenvale to solve a murder, a murder that had ballooned into a serial killer case, unearthing dark, heady secrets all across town as it played out… and he had actually enjoyed being here. All because of her. He stared back at Emily, and smiled, letting the expression play across his lips like a song. The happiest smile he could remember having.

“I should think about getting home…” Emily said slowly. “I know there’ll be more work in the morning. It would be good to get an early night.”

“Sure, of course,” York agreed. The two of them got up, and York dropped a few bills on the table for Richard. He walked her outside. It was a cold night, and Emily reflexively wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you want my jacket?” York asked.

“No,” she laughed. “I’ll be all right.” She looked at him, gently biting her bottom lip. Then she turned to face him properly, leaning up onto the balls of her feet. York closed his eyes as she kissed him, putting his arms on her waist a moment later. Her lips were warm, soft. He drew his arms around her, pulling her up against him, and she murmured so quietly it was almost inaudible. When it ended, York opened his eyes again to see Emily looking back at him, eyes half-closed, mouth slightly open, rocking back onto her heels. He would never forget it.

“I love you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know that might be the wrong thing to say. But I love you.”

“It’s… not the wrong thing to say,” Emily breathed. Her face had flushed. Her eyes, blue and bright with a tiny bit of green, stood out, and he knew he would never think of the colour again without first thinking of her.

“I’ll let you go home,” he said. “We’ll see each other again tomorrow.”

“Yes…” Emily murmured. “Tomorrow. Sure.”

“I can’t wait,” York added. He smiled. Emily smiled back, turning so slowly he thought she was going to change her mind, and walked away, in the direction of her house. York waited until she was completely out of sight before walking to his car.

“Tomorrow, Zach,” he whispered. “It’s going to be one hell of a day.”


	50. Sinner’s Sandwich

Chapter Fifty. [ Sinner’s Sandwich ]

York woke up late, and went to see if Polly had made breakfast. He was glad to see that she had indeed, and when he sat down at the table she put a large plate of food and a mug of coffee in front of him. He sipped the coffee first.

“As good as ever, Polly,” he said.

“Oh, Mr. Morgan!” she laughed. “You’re too kind.” York saw that the room was empty aside from the two of them.

“Is Michael still here?” he asked. He hadn’t felt the need to check when he came back last night.

“Yes, as far as I know,” Polly said. “But he doesn’t want to leave his room much. Very quiet boy. And I’m not surprised, after Harry was killed.” She frowned, saddened. “What a tragedy. Another tragedy. That poor man. Still, it’s nice to have guests here.”

“Yes,” York agreed. “Michael isn’t taking it well, I gather.”

“Mr. Morgan!” Polly laughed, and he sensed she had misheard him again. “What timing! You know that isn’t the sort of thing you should say.”

“No, I suppose not,” York muttered. He was about to go back to his breakfast, but Polly carried on.

“Mr. Kaysen won’t be joining us either,” she said, apologetically. As if York would be upset by the news. “He already left this morning.”

“He’s left town?” York asked hopefully.

“Oh no, not yet,” Polly corrected herself. “He’s just gone out in his truck, with that dog of his. Probably to meet those sweet boys of Lilly’s.”

“Ah,” York said. Then, he decided to take the opportunity to ask some questions. “Have you known Kaysen a long time?” he asked.

“He always stays here when he comes to Greenvale,” Polly cheerfully informed him. “He comes quite often. I think he’s on the road most of the year. I prefer being close to home, I don’t know how he does it.”

“It grows on you,” York said. “Are the two of you… good friends?” he asked. Polly laughed.

“He is always so friendly!” she said. “I suppose we’re close. Sometimes I think he treats me a little like a mother. He brings me gifts sometimes, little things, from his trips. I have a few of his plants in my rooms here.”

“That’s generous,” York said.

“Yes,” Polly agreed. Her face slowly creased in displeasure. “It was such a shame, actually… He gave me this beautiful, rare plant. I put it on my windowsill. But, I’m afraid I knocked the whole thing off one day, when I was dusting. The pot shattered immediately, and the plant was lost. I’ve always been afraid to mention it to him, and it did look so special. These lovely, bright red leaves.”

“What?” York asked sharply. “Red leaves?”

“Yes, that’s right, red!” Polly repeated serenely. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a plant quite like it. Not the red you get in the fall, you understand, but year round. Almost… painted. It was a lovely sapling. I wonder where he got it from?”

“I… I don’t know,” York said. “Sorry, Polly, I need to go.” He got up from his chair, feeling slightly nauseous. Surely it wasn’t the way it sounded.

“But Mr. Morgan!” Polly cried out. “What about your breakfast?”

“I’m sorry, Polly,” York said. “I’m not hungry anymore.” He hurried out of the room, and then out of the hotel. It was probably some other kind of plant, he thought. Kaysen was a specialist, after all. He must know about all kinds of plants, things York had never heard of, from all over the world. The idea that he even knew about the red trees in the graveyard was ridiculous. But despite those facts, York still wondered. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection.

♦ ♦ ♦

York drove all the way into the sheriff’s department parking lot and turned off the engine before he realised he wasn’t ready to talk to Emily. He hated to think that, considering everything he dealt with in his life, seeing a woman he was in love with was what made him nervous. That didn’t change the fact that it did. He tried to make himself get out of the car. He spent several long minutes going through what he was going to say when he saw her. Everything kept going back to the kiss, and the words he’d said afterwards. He’d told her he loved her. He had never told anyone that before. Suddenly, there were so many firsts. Emily was finding all his walls and tearing through them like tissue paper. Perhaps that was why it was so hard for him. He had no defence around her. Everything was raw, stripped to the bone. Exposed.

Eventually York admitted to himself that he couldn’t go in yet. He realised he was hungry. Almost starving after missing breakfast. He drove over to the diner, happy to have a distraction, glad to have somewhere else to go. Even if he could only put off seeing Emily for the time it took to order and eat a sandwich, it was better than nothing.

York was in for a surprise when he walked through the diner doors. Taking the order of a couple at one of the tables, back in her waitress uniform at last, was Anna. York walked up to her happily.

“Anna!” he said. “You’re back at work.”

“Oh, yeah, totally!” she said. “My mom said it was okay now, cause the killer’s moved on, and he’s not after teenagers anymore. I guess he murdered that old guy who comes in a lot… it’s kind of sad. He was, like, a bit of a weird guy? But I was so used to seeing him, so it’s just kind of sad in general.” She sighed, and shrugged her shoulders. “All of this is sad… I’m glad I could come back to work. It’s so distracting. The busy life of being a waitress! Oh my god, I’m completely babbling again, I’m so sorry! Dumb, Anna. Dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, Anna,” York said, offering her a smile. She returned it.

“No… maybe not,” she said. “Like, I hope not. But I know everyone thinks I am.”

“You know, the other day someone told me that only a fool thinks he knows everything,” York said, repeating what Michael had said to him. It seemed appropriate. Anna giggled awkwardly, shaking her head slightly back and forth.

“Oh wow!” she said. “Where did you hear that?”

“Just around, I suppose,” York said. He wouldn’t tell Michael that not everyone took his advice seriously. He thought back to what he’d seen yesterday, in the basement of the Galaxy of Terror, and what Becky had said about it. It might not be the best time to ask Anna about it, but he needed to know. “Anna,” he said seriously, stepping to the side and feeling thankful when she followed him away from the table, eyes widening as if she was about to be told off.

“Yeah?” she asked. “Why do I feel like you’re not about to ask me about our specials?” He laughed a little at her joke.

“No, actually,” he said, lowering his voice. “I discovered Carol’s secret room, in her bar. And I asked Becky about it, but she was very brief. Could I ask you what you know, Anna? I think you were going to tell me before, the day that Carol died.”

“Yeah… I remember,” Anna said bleakly. “When I came into the sheriff’s office to talk to you? But then they found Carol, and, yeah. That feels so long ago.”

“It does,” York agreed. “So, will you tell me now?” Anna looked around to make sure no-one was listening before she started to speak.

“Carol told us we were gonna play a game,” Anna said slowly. “I kind of encouraged Becky to go cause, well, I wanted to hang out with Carol and it seemed like it was going to be exciting. Plus, I didn’t wanna go by myself. But… it wasn’t fun. It was really weird. And then the sheriff was there, too, and it got… worse.”

“All right, Anna, then what happened?” York urged. He had a very bad feeling about it all. He knew why Becky had reacted so badly. She had plenty of reasons to be angry. He was beginning to see that.

“Okay, so…” Anna said. She was clearly uncomfortable. “When the sheriff arrived it got really weird. Like, bad weird, too. I don’t know what Becky told you. He and Carol kind of… suggested that we, uh. That stuff should happen. Not… not great stuff.”

“Did George and Carol hurt Becky?” York asked.

“I…” Anna said. “I… I don’t know if I should…” she stammered. She was twisting a chunk of her hair around her finger, wretchedly. York wanted to be considerate, but he also wanted to know the truth. “Yeah,” she finally said. “Yeah, but, that’s Becky’s story, okay? It’s not, like, my business to tell people about it. If she didn’t want to say… that’s up to her.”

“All right, Anna. Thank you,” York said. She nodded once, and then went to hand her table’s orders over to the kitchen. York sighed. Becky’s story, indeed.

He went to go and sit down and looked over a menu. When Olivia came to take his order, neither of them said anything but “turkey sandwich, coffee” and “thank you”. Probably she was still upset that her girlfriend was in a jail cell. York shook his head. He should really go and let Diane out of prison after breakfast. He doubted she’d accept an apology. At least, with the case finally reaching its end, he could soon say that he’d done his job. Now there was just the hard part left. Bringing in the killer.

York ate quietly, reflecting on what had happened to him in Greenvale over the past two weeks. He felt the experience had changed him as a person. He was a different man. It was going to be almost impossible to go back home after everything. In a way, that was what he’d been afraid of, that Greenvale would bury its roots in him and refuse to let go. Now, he was glad it had happened.

“And Emily, Zach…” he murmured under his breath. “I can’t believe that really happened.” The kiss last night was so fresh, he could almost taste it still. A smile crossed his lips as he wondered if there would be more today.

As he was finishing eating, the front door of the diner opened, and he glanced up. He frowned, surprised to see Michael standing there. Perhaps because of where he was sitting, Michael didn’t see him, as he didn’t even look over. York thought about getting up to say hello, and ask how he was, but Michael walked straight over to the kitchen window, waiting, as he had done so often in the past.

York took the last bite of his sandwich and watched. A moment later, Anna appeared from the kitchen, smiling in her normal bubbly way. She handed Michael a full plate. York recognised it. The sinner’s sandwich. Michael smiled back at her, taking the plate over to a table to eat. York shrugged. He got up from his table and headed out the door. He really had better see to it that Diane was released, before she tore the place down from the inside out.

As he got outside, he stopped. An idea was forming in the back of his mind. Pieces fitting together. Little things, that hadn’t seemed important until now.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

♦ ♦ ♦

Later that afternoon, as the sky was clouding over, a front door clicked open. There was the sound of feet treading fast up the stairs, crossing the hallway. A bedroom door opened, and, from inside the room, the crack of a book cover snapping shut.

“You’re back,” said the person lying on the bed, sitting up, and putting their book to the side. The person who had walked in let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, thank god,” Anna said. “What a killer day! Joking. Were you all right here by yourself? If my mom caught you, you have no idea how pissed she’d be.”

“I believe she’s with Richard Dunn,” Michael said, getting up and walking over to Anna.

“Again!” Anna sighed. “Like, yeah, mom, there’s a serial killer on the loose, but make sure to leave your daughter home alone so you can go off and party!”

“You can’t entirely hold a grudge over that,” Michael said. “You are, after all, the one she’s meant to be protecting you from. It makes her job quite difficult.”

“I guess,” Anna laughed. She reached down to take off her shoes, changing her mind and kicking them off her feet instead. “But she doesn’t know that. Oh, yeah! The FBI agent came into the diner earlier. He was snooping around again, asking about that stuff with Carol and George. God, what a downer. If I never have to think about it again, it’s still too soon.”

“Ah,” Michael said. “Then I’m sorry.” He reached across and brushed the hair from her forehead, and Anna smiled hazily back at him.

“Thanks,” she said. “Life is so hard, sometimes. Keeping secrets, bussing tables, and, oh yeah, hiding from the cops!”

“We are not exactly hiding from the FBI, yet,” Michael said. “And as long as we remain careful, we don’t need to fret.”

“Sure,” Anna said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “But a part of me still can’t believe he hasn’t realised I’m the killer yet.”

♦ ♦ ♦

As soon as he’d left the diner, and the truth had dawned on him, York had run to the sheriff’s department, bursting through the door and barrelling down to the conference room, arriving completely out of breath. Emily, who had been eating her own lunch, had to wait several minutes before he could tell her what was wrong.

“York?” she said. “York?” Repeating it over and over until he answered.

“Emily…” he gasped. “You need to tell George to release Diane.”

“Wait, what?” Emily laughed. This attitude wasn’t what she had been expecting after the previous evening. It worried her, actually, to see York so frantic. “So… you’ve changed your mind, then? Her information was that good? I wasn’t sure it actually helped get us anywhere.”

“No,” York said. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” Emily asked, starting to really worry about why he was acting this way.

“I know who the Raincoat Killer is!” York shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy sixth birthday to Deadly Premonition! My updates have been a little slow lately because I wanted this chapter to go up today. It just felt fitting to post this one on the game's anniversary! Don't worry, updates will speed up again now. I won't make anyone wait too long for the next chapter, I know there will be some questions. Speaking of, I am really looking forward to what people think of this (and the next chapter, which has a lot more explanation). I know you've been waiting for the reveal. That said, to avoid any massive spoilers in the comments, I'd really be thankful if people could refer to the killer as "them" instead of by name. I am still desperate to know what everyone thought though, so I hope I can tempt you to comment! If you want to talk in more detail about it, then please just message me on - michaeltillotson.tumblr.com. Thanks very much.


	51. Red Goddess

Chapter Fifty-One. [ Red Goddess ]

Three months before York’s realisation, before he had even heard of a town called Greenvale, Anna Graham stood in the diner after hours, wiping milkshake residue off a table. She was wearing a frown, and scrubbing hard at the stubborn mark. Eventually she let out an angry moan and dropped the cloth, raising her hands in dismay.

“God!” she sighed, blowing out her cheeks and pouting. “Like, sure, why not go ahead and drop milkshake everywhere and not even wipe it up! Cause I love this job so much, definitely what I’m here for, certainly not just desperate to get out of this place or anything!”

She shook her head and went back to it, hoping she would be done soon so she could leave. Nick and Olivia were already gone. Nick had hurried off as soon as possible, and Anna had seen Olivia’s shoulders sag as she watched him go. Olivia had limped back to the kitchen, head hung down against her chest, and Anna had felt sorry for her. That was probably why she’d offered to finish cleaning up and close the diner, and Olivia had been so thankful for the idea, Anna couldn’t take back the offer when it occurred to her how much she didn’t want to do it. Now, here she was, working away at something that wouldn’t shift no matter what she did.

“Just like everything…” she muttered to herself. “I try and help, and I’m the one who gets screwed. Ugh. It won’t be like this in Seattle.” It was already hours past the usual closing time, and she should have walked into her house a good forty minutes ago, at least. She was beginning to wonder if Olivia would even notice her hard work, or whether it might be worth stopping here, when there was a weak, timid knock on the front door of the diner. Anna straightened up immediately, her heart racing, as she wondered who was here so late. It could be a robbery, or worse, Olivia coming back to check up on her. And she hadn’t even finished the dishes in the kitchen yet.

“Who is there?” Anna called out. “The door’s locked and… I have a gun, if you’re here to steal anything. So you can just… fuck off!” There was no reply and, screwing up her face in frustration, Anna marched over to answer it. If it was a robbery, she thought, maybe it would be better for them to just shoot her and get it over with. She yanked the door open, having not actually bothered to lock it, even though she was cleaning inside alone.

“I am very sorry to bother you this late,” came a quiet voice from the other side of the door. “My coming down was a mistake.”

“Oh, it’s…. you,” Anna mumbled apologetically. She recognised the man from the diner. The one who always came in pushing Harry Stewart’s wheelchair to pick up their sandwich order. She couldn’t remember his name. She shouldn’t have bitten his head off just for knocking.

He swung back and forth slightly, rocking on his heels nervously, hands behind his back. It was strange for anyone to come to the diner this late, Anna thought. Though she didn’t think he was here to empty the cash register. She put on her usual fake, bubbly smile. The one she always pulled out for customers, and her mother, and people at school. It had got her through a lot of bad situations.

“Uh, so what brings you to the A&G this late at night?” she asked. Even she thought it sounded fake, the kind of friendly personality of a gameshow host, not a real person. “M… Matthew?”

“It’s Michael,” Michael said, ducking his head, as if he took personal responsibility for her getting it wrong. “It was a mistake and you have my apologies, I’ll go if you can excuse me, please.”

“No, it’s okay,” Anna said, letting her smile sink slightly, into a more natural shape. “I was bored cleaning up here anyway by myself. You can come in.” She stepped out of the way, but Michael didn’t immediately follow her, instead hovering on the threshold like a vampire who had not yet been properly invited in. “Geez!” Anna laughed. “Get in and close the door!”

“Sorry,” Michael said, doing as she asked. It was cold outside, having rained for part of the morning and never brightening up. If she was stuck here for another hour, Anna decided, she might at least be warm. She sat down on the edge of one of the tables, making sure it wasn’t dirty, but also wasn’t one of the ones she had just cleaned.

“The kitchen isn’t open,” she said, cocking her head towards it. “And I suck at cooking anyway. Pretty much all I’m good for is cleaning up after people.” Michael nodded slightly at her description, thoughtful. “But yeah,” Anna went on. “What did you want?”

“I was in here earlier today, and I misplaced something along the way,” he explained. Anna shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, get it, I guess,” she said. Michael smiled appreciatively, and hurried off towards the back of the diner. He searched around on the floor for a moment and Anna watched him, in no hurry to get back to cleaning. Eventually he let out a small ‘ah’ sound and returned, clutching something tightly in his hands.

“Thank you!” he said. Anna looked down at his hands, trying to see what he was holding.

“So?” she asked. “What is it? What did you lose? You gotta show me, I helped.”

“Ah…” Michael considered for a moment, finally unclenching his hands, carefully. He was holding a small wooden carving of a bird.

“That’s cute,” Anna said, smiling at it. “So did you just lose it earlier?”

“Yes, I noticed later that I had managed to drop it, I suppose I let it slip from my pocket,” Michael sighed to himself. On cue, he tucked the bird back into his trouser pocket, tucking it deep into the bottom. Anna was intrigued. Certainly more by this than trying to shift the milkshake stain again.

“It must be important if you carry it with you everywhere,” Anna suggested. “It looks handmade. Did someone make it for you?” Michael looked uncertainly at her, brushing at his bangs and trying to decide if this was a conversation he wanted to carry on. Eventually, perhaps happy to have the opportunity to talk about it at all, he relented.

“My father,” he mumbled. “He made it for me. It is the most important thing I own, which is why I never leave it alone.”

“Yeah…” Anna said. “I wish my dad had made something like that for me.” She frowned, abandoning the fake smile completely. “Before he, like… died.” She watched Michael’s expression shift into one of concern, as people’s always did when she made a reference to her father’s death. It was practically a trigger phrase for sympathy.

“You have my regret,” he said.

“Thanks. It was ages ago though, I don’t want to milk it,” Anna said. She felt a little bad, hearing how genuinely sad for her he sounded, that she’d even mentioned it. “Yeah, just me and my mom. For now, at least. I’m getting out of here as soon as I can, belieeeve me! Me and my best friend Becky are totally gonna move to Seattle and have our own place! It’ll be way better than this.”

“In that case, I wish you the best of luck,” Michael said. “It must be comforting to have a plan to which you are stuck.”

“It is, yeah,” Anna agreed. “So… what about you? I always see you with that guy. Are you his like assistant, or whatever? You must make some pretty good money doing that every day.”

“It’s not about money. If you can accept half an explanation,” Michael protested. “The whole story… isn’t worth the aggravation.” Anna giggled softly.

“Do you always do that?” she asked. Michael raised his eyebrows slightly at her. “The rhyming, thing? It’s… I don’t know. Kind of special, right?”

“Ah…” he mumbled, and she noticed that he patted the pocket with the wooden bird quickly. A nervous tic. “I do, usually.”

“I get it,” Anna said, smiling, this time for real. “It’s all for show, yeah? Like, not that it’s fake, it’s just… people start to expect you to be a certain way, so you end up being that way all the time, even if it wasn’t totally who you were to begin with. And then suddenly that’s all you ever are, cause everyone’s like ‘yup! that’s you all right!’ and you’re just there asking yourself, hey, is it actually? Is that actually who I am?”

“Oh…” Michael said, casting his eyes downward. “Yes, that’s… People do often try to put you in boxes. I can feel… uncomfortable, talking with people, and it offers –”

“Protection?” Anna finished. “Like it’s a wall? Like, even if they think you’re acting stupid or whatever, then who cares because they don’t even know the real you. They just think that whole… persona is stupid. But they can’t do anything to the real you, cause you never let them see it.” She finished, looking wistfully down at her feet for a second.

“You are right,” Michael said softly. “The opinions don’t mean anything when they’re basing it on the wrong person. If there’s more to you than people think, then their judgement is irrelevant.”

“Totally!” Anna said. She found herself putting the fake smile back on, but she didn’t know why. “You know…” she began. “And you have to tell me if I’m just randomly babbling at you, cause you didn’t even come here to talk to me at all and I bet you wish I was Olivia right now so I would just be quiet cause, god, Anna, you sure can talk… anyway.” She could hear her voice wilting the more she spoke. “I think people, like, decided I was just this stupid, boring girl, who only thinks about herself which, wow, I am not doing a good job to disprove right now! But then slowly it just seemed harder to prove them wrong, and easier to just… go along with it? And when I started going along with it, people liked that, cause hey, they were right about me. I am just some dumb girl who never really did that well in school, and who just wanted to pose for pictures and smile and never talk about anything serious. Cause Anna wouldn’t understand, anyway. So let’s just ask Anna about how she gets her hair like that, or will she take our picture, or oh my god, Anna, did you lose weight, cause that’s the only stuff she would want to talk about, right? Wow, Anna, you’re gonna be such a cute prom queen, you totally have to help me pick out a dress, this is gonna be so goddamn party, Anna! But not, hey Anna, where are you applying to for college? Do you wanna go visit some campuses, Anna? No way. That’s not what _Anna_ would want to do! And we all know Anna so fucking well!”

She realised she had screwed up her fists in front of her face as she’d been talking, and had to drop them back to her sides, feeling them unclench painfully as if they didn’t know how to go back. She took a moment to catch her breath before returning the wide, vacant, fake smile to her face, trying desperately to reclaim the ground she’d just surrendered. Michael eyed her carefully, expression neutral. Anna suspected he was waiting for his moment to turn and run.

“I’m sorry for that,” Michael said after a while. “I know how you feel. It’s hard, after a while, to keep pretending. Especially…” He smiled momentarily to himself. “…When there seems to be no sign of it ending.” Anna giggled, appreciating the subtle gesture of self-awareness. It made her feel less uncomfortable about her outburst.

“You know,” she said. “My friend Becky, she’s really smart. Everyone knows she’s gonna go to college and do really well for herself. She’ll probably be a lawyer or something else super cool and powerful, and make loads of money. I’m happy for her, I just… I know that isn’t what people think when they look at me. Like, everyone says I’m gonna be a model or something. I think maybe I just will, you know? Make a load of money standing there with an empty smile on my face. I know I’ve had plenty of practice…” She sighed. “But whatever, though. At least it’ll get me out of here. And if I made model money, I could live by myself and buy some nice stuff. I’d probably be pretty happy. Especially if Becky comes with me.” She hesitated, struggling for the next part. “She won’t, though.”

Anna lapsed into silence, looking down at the floor. Graduation was fast approaching, and she knew after it passed, it was just a matter of time before everyone from her high school moved on, in different directions. Becky, especially, had plenty of prospects ahead of her. Anna thought about what could happen, as she had been doing every day lately. Either she and her best friend would succeed in leaving Greenvale behind, in which case Anna knew the odds were against them ending up in the same state, let alone the same town. If not, they’d stay stuck in Greenvale, like Carol had. Anna could think of few things worse right now than ending up trapped like Carol had been. The absolute worse situation, that made her shudder to even think about, was watching Becky leave town while she remained in Greenvale, stuck working at the diner, living with her mother, going nowhere. Forever.

The silence seemed to have carried on for a long time, she realised vaguely. It was growing awkward, and in a moment she was going to have to break it by saying she had to finish her work. Not that she hadn’t appreciated the distraction. It had felt good to finally have someone offer her an excuse to unburden herself of all the things that had been on her mind. She was thankful for the chance. She began to shift in place, when Michael reached over and, softly, patted her hand. She looked back at him and he smiled nervously at her, quickly tucking his hands back behind his back as if he had done nothing. Anna hesitated.

“Um…” she said, suddenly a little nervous herself. “Do you wanna maybe go somewhere else and… talk…?”

♦ ♦ ♦

A few days later, Anna was over at Becky’s house. She was sitting in Becky’s bedroom, Becky beside her, and Quint on the other side, completing the trio. The three of them were meant to be watching a movie together, but Anna had quickly realised she was the only one interested in paying attention. She stared ahead at the screen, arms folded, as Quint and Becky quietly giggled into each other’s faces and snuck kisses.

“Oh, hey,” Anna said, more to break up her own discomfort than to make conversation. “Becky.” She waited until her friend could tear her face away from her boyfriend and look over. “I meant to tell you this. I met someone.”

“Like… who?” Becky asked, giggling, as Quint buried his face in her neck, nuzzling at her.

“A guy,” Anna said. “From the diner.”

“Oh wow, a diner guy!” Becky laughed, swatting at Quint, who resisted the weak attempt to restrain him. “Did he ask you out when you handed him some ketchup?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Becky,” Anna sighed. She knew that Becky was just playing around, trying to be funny, but after sitting next to her and Quint for an hour, Anna was no longer in the mood for it.

“Sorry,” Becky said, nudging Quint away for real. “So, really. Who is it?”

“His name’s Michael, and he came in –”

“Wait, do you mean the guy who hangs out with that creepy old man in the gasmask? Harry?” Becky asked. “No way, I didn’t even know he could talk. For himself, I mean. How did you even meet him?”

“You prob’ly wanna stay away from that kinda guy, you know what I’m saying,” Quint added. Anna didn’t appreciate his butting in. She certainly didn’t want his advice.

“Uh, he’s nice, actually, Quint,” Anna said, frowning. She turned back to Becky. “He came in when I was closing up, and we started talking. We have lots in common, actually.”

“Like what?” Becky asked.

“Like he’s kept this diary every day since forever,” Anna said. “Just like me. And his dad sounds like a total asshole, which is so like my mom I can’t even tell you.”

“Do you remember that time she made you stay home all night just cause she caught you taking one of her lipsticks?” Becky laughed. “Okay, I know I shouldn’t say this, but every now and then I’m glad it’s just me!”

“Yeah, tell me about it!” Anna said, starting to laugh as well. “Even your sister wouldn’t react that badly, and she is a total control freak.”

“I used to steal her stuff all the time, and she never called me on it,” Becky confessed. “I think I still have a pair of her shoes still that I never gave back. God.”

“Well, anyway…” Anna laughed. “It’s really nice having someone to talk to about stuff. I’m not telling my mom though, and you both have to promise you won’t either. You know she’d go nuts about me dating anyone, you remember the last time? Or the time before that…”

“God, yeah,” Becky agreed with a sigh. “Sallie Graham, professional overreact-er. It’s like she thinks all boys are serial killers.”

“As if,” Anna said. “Michael wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Anna, you deserve it.” Becky smiled warmly and Anna’s heart jumped happily in response. She tried to hold their gaze for a while, but a moment later Becky turned back to Quint, and Anna was left to pay attention to the movie by herself for the rest of the evening.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sometime later, after a couple of pleasant weeks had passed and Anna began to wonder if things were looking up, she found herself meeting up with Carol after work. She hadn’t seen her friend for a while. After things had grown strained between Becky and Carol, it had been difficult, and she didn’t spend as much time with Carol as she wanted. Anna didn’t understand it. Quint was so obviously not the type of person to cheat on his girlfriend, that Anna just couldn’t see how Becky didn’t realise he would never be interested in Carol while he was with her. That said, Anna didn’t exactly think Quint was the type of person worth worrying over anyway. And she hadn’t exactly told Becky that she knew Quint would never cheat. Quite the opposite, actually. But Quint and Becky were still together, with mind-numbing consistency, and Anna had to grin and bear it. Like always.

Anna met Carol at the Galaxy of Terror before opening. Carol was leaning against the bar, smoking a cigarette, one red high heel poised against the surface. Anna smiled to herself as she saw her. Despite herself, every time she saw Carol, a little part of her still went back to when she was in her mid-teens and Carol had seemed like the most exciting person in the world.

“Hey, Anna. How’s my favourite prom queen today?” Carol said airily when she saw her approach. Anna grinned, showing off her teeth.

“She’s great!” she replied. “How’s my favourite… how are you?” Carol smirked to herself, dragging on her cigarette.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she said. Anna hesitantly edged herself in close to Carol, mimicking her friend’s pose, resting her own foot against the bar.

“Can I get one of those?” Anna asked, pointing to the cigarette. Carol wordlessly took the packet out of her jeans and handed one to Anna, along with the lighter. Anna lit it, and rested it between her lips.

“So what’s life?” Carol asked.

“Oh, God,” Anna said, tucking the cigarette between her fingers to talk. She wasn’t quite competent enough to smoke and talk at the same time, as she had seen some people do. “Becky and I went out together last night, right, and we’d been planning this thing all week. We were gonna go and sit by the lake and drink a bit and look at the water, and at the last minute it’s just, oh, sorry! Quint asked if he could come! Hope that doesn’t burn you out or anything, Anna!” She sighed roughly at the memory. “Honestly, I am so sick of hanging out with him.”

“Yeah, he’s not exactly fun to spend time with,” Carol sneered. “Remind me why I dated him?”

“Um, because you’re fucking stupid?” Anna joked, and the two of them laughed.

“Hey, let Becky have her moist little cowboy,” Carol laughed. “I’ve moved on to someone far more impressive.” She smirked to herself, and Anna felt her heart sink. She hated when Carol started talking about her boyfriend. Anna couldn’t see why Carol put up with the sheriff. He seemed ill-tempered and rude, and Carol had made it clear from her many angry rants on the subject that he wasn’t exactly loyal to her. It wasn’t worth it, Anna thought to herself.

“Yeah, definitely,” Anna agreed half-heartedly.

“You know,” Carol began, slowly, drawing out her words in between drags on her cigarette. “We’ve been working on something pretty special… It’s a secret. But I couldn’t wait to tell you about it.”

“You couldn’t?” Anna asked excitedly.

“No,” Carol said, smiling darkly across at her, dropping her voice to a low whisper. “I mean, we’re such good friends, Anna.”

“Yeah… totally,” Anna said dreamily, staring at Carol and feeling heat creep into her cheeks. “I’m really glad how we’re still friends, even after stuff with Becky.”

“She’s forgiven me though, right?” Carol asked carefully. “We’re all friends, aren’t we? She knows that thing with Quint was years ago. Ancient history.”

“Oh my god, totally!” Anna promised. “No, there’s no way, Becky doesn’t hold grudges. We’re all friends. Even if it’s, like, kind of awkward at points. It’s not a big deal.” She hoped that was the case. Carol smiled slyly to herself, slowly taking the cigarette from her mouth and stubbing it out on the top of the bar.

“Great,” she said. “Then let me tell you our secret.”

♦ ♦ ♦

It had taken a few days, but Anna had finally persuaded Becky to go along with the plan. Carol had described the place in detail to her, turning it into a vivid, lurid haven away from the rest of the world. A place just for the three of them. Carol described everything in neat detail, from the antique red carpets her brother had found at a real bordello, to the record player she had bought which was just like the one she had at home from her childhood. It sounded beautiful from Carol’s description, and Anna had been bursting to see it. It would be the perfect secret. A place for the three friends to hide from their real lives, and their problems. A place where Anna could pretend that things would stay good forever.

Becky hadn’t been as entranced. At first she had thought the idea was childish, but the more Anna had described it, she’d labelled the idea as just plain weird. Why, she’d asked, did Carol need a secret room under her bar, when she already had that sultry, hazy atmosphere in the Galaxy of Terror itself? When Anna had told her that the place was meant to be their own private club, Becky had laughed.

Carol had been very clear. She wanted the three of them to all hang out there together. Otherwise, she had said, it wasn’t a club. It was just ‘Anna and Carol’s reject basement’. She’d asked Anna if she really wanted to sit around, just the two of them, night after night? Anna hadn’t had the courage to say that she would have been more than fine with that. But this would be better anyway, she had decided. Becky and Carol were her two closest friends, and getting to lounge around with them like they were in the nineteen forties would be ridiculously cool. Even if Anna couldn’t get away from Greenvale yet, she suddenly had some reasons to stay. She hoped this would finally mend things between Becky and Carol properly, and they could all go back to how they used to be. Back before Carol started dating the sheriff.

“Are you sure this’ll even be fun?” Becky asked anxiously, as she and Anna walked up to the front door of the Galaxy of Terror. Carol had kept it closed all night for the occasion.

“Uh, yeah? Obviously!” Anna laughed. “Come on, Becky, don’t kill this, it’ll be great.” She knocked on the door.

“Wish I’d brought a jacket though, it’s fucking cold,” Becky muttered, rubbing her bare arms. She and Anna were wearing matching red party dresses, the closest thing Anna had been able to find to match the long, elegant gowns that Carol was always draped in as she sang on stage. They’d bought them earlier that day. Anna had wanted to have something to fit the feel of a glamourous, private club. She didn’t think she’d got it quite perfect.

The door opened and Carol was standing there, in her own floor-length red dress. The matching boa she often wore was thrown around her neck and over one shoulder, giving her a thick, pink collar of feathers. She was clearly wearing higher heels than usual, as her normally short figure extended over Anna’s head. She smirked as she saw them, rouged lips cocking with a trace of amusement. The dark eyeshadow she was wearing seemed heavy enough to lower her eyelids, and the thick, dark lashes twitched gently in Anna’s direction. Anna’s heart fluttered. Carol was a vision.

“Come on in then, girls,” Carol murmured dreamily. The tone reminded Anna of Becky’s older sister, Diane, and the way she always talked. Becky shot Anna an uncertain glance, and the two girls followed Carol through the bar to the door that led to the basement. Carol led them down deeper, until finally, she reached the last door.

“Abandon all hope…” Becky mumbled, just loud enough for only Anna to hear her. Carol pushed the door open, and the lights turned on automatically on the other side. They stepped into the room together. Their secret club.

It was nothing like how Carol had described it, Anna thought, her heart sinking. It was seedy instead of glamourous. Carol’s description felt like it had been translated through several different languages before she said it. Parts of it had vaguely clung to the truth, but in such a warped, decontextualized way, that Anna knew it was on purpose.

“So?” Carol said, spreading herself out on the leather sofa. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“It’s cool,” Anna said weakly. “Did your brother help you with a lot of it?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Carol admitted, frowning. “But isn’t it great?”

“Oh, no, it definitely is,” Anna said, trying to sound enthusiastic. She found herself putting on the wide, fake smile that was always there for her in times like this. Satisfied, Carol edged along the sofa and patted the seat for Anna to join her.

“Did you bring your camera?” she asked, as Anna sat down.

“Yeah, I did,” Anna said. Carol had asked her to, though Anna no longer really felt like taking pictures. This wasn’t the sort of night she wanted to memorialise. She could already feel it.

“Lean in then, Ms. Graham,” Carol ordered playfully, pressing her shoulder against Anna and smirking. Anna held up the camera over their heads, smiling as well, and took the picture. The polaroid came out and Carol snatched it, shaking it in her hand. “Kind of blurry,” she said, as the picture cleared. “Oh well.”

“You can keep that one,” Anna said. She had plenty more photographs at home, of all her friends, acquaintances, and everyone else. She liked having a record of happy memories. She should take some of Michael, she thought, guiltily. She hadn’t had the chance to take even one of him yet. She must have been distracted. Carol placed the photo on the arm of the sofa.

“So then, ladies,” Carol said, lowering her voice to a level that automatically made every word sound like a secret. “Let’s get started.”

It didn’t take long for the mood to change. Carol had laid out plenty of vodka for them, and Anna had been desperate for anything to make her feel more excited about the night. Even Becky had joined in after a while, and the three of them were soon laughing and drinking together, just as Carol had described. It was almost starting to turn into a good time, Anna thought happily, as she tried to point her camera at Carol without wobbling too much in her heels. Then, the basement door opened again.

“Heeey!” Carol shouted, scurrying over. “You got here!” She rushed into George’s waiting arms and Becky and Anna went quiet. Even the music pouring out of the record player seemed to skip. Carol tried to lean up to kiss George, pulling his hat off by mistake as she did.

“You’ve already started the fun,” George snorted, through a leery smile. Carol sniggered, holding his hat in front of her and twirling. “Hello, ladies,” he added, nodding to Anna and Becky, who waved unenthusiastically back.

“Anna and Becky came out to play a game with us,” Carol said, stepping back and draping an arm around Anna’s shoulder, tugging her close. Anna’s head was swimming from the vodka, but she was just sober enough to realise this wasn’t going well. “Did you bring it?” Carol added.

“Obviously I brought it,” George said harshly. Carol smiled, biting her lip, completely ignoring the roughness of his tone. “Here.” He took a bag out of his pocket and tossed it over to Carol, who snatched it out of the air. She dropped George’s hat onto the ground, and went to sit down, picking up one of the empty shot glasses sitting on the floor.

“Um, what is it?” Anna asked.

“It’s fucking incredible,” Carol purred. She opened the bag and tipped a handful of the contents into the glass. Red seeds. She picked one out and opened her mouth, gluing it onto her tongue before slowly swallowing.

“Is that drugs?” Becky slurred. Anna hadn’t noticed before, but she seemed to be the drunkest of them all. She found herself twisting her hair around her finger, uncomfortably.

“It’s way better than drugs, Becky,” Carol teased. “You have to be careful how much you eat, though. Too much gets you too fucked up, and angry. You need juuust enough.”

“Just enough,” George repeated, leering. Anna screwed up her nose. Why he had had to come and wreck everything, she didn’t know. It was much worse than when Becky ended up bringing Quint along for things.

“Here, Anna,” Carol said, voice smooth and buttery, as she held up the shot glass. “Come and get some, yes?” Anna wasn’t convinced.

“If my mom knew…” she started. Carol snorted with laughter.

“Come on, Anna!” she snapped, smirking. “What’s mommy gonna do? You’re eighteen, you’re gonna move out soon. Who cares? Be a fucking adult.” Carol reached out for Anna’s hand, holding it up and tipping a small dose of the seeds into it. Anna looked down at them, bright red, in her palm.

“If you’re sure, Carol,” she sighed. She hesitated for a moment, then licked the seeds out of her hand, feeling them in her mouth, and on the back of her tongue. The effect was fast. Much more than from the alcohol, she felt her head swimming, like she was dreaming. Like she didn’t exist. The world was covered in a dull, red glow, like the sun was setting from behind every surface in the room. Then, as she started to come back down to earth, she could feel her heart fluttering, and the red colour was smothering her. She could hear it. A sort of syrupy purr in the back of her ears. It was like being wrapped in velvet. She tried to open her eyes several times, waiting to click through the switches until she found the one that let her back into the basement. Everyone had moved. She must have been day dreaming for minutes, at the very least.

“Look at her!” Carol laughed. She had given up her seat. Now George was sitting on the sofa, and Carol rested on his lap. “She doesn’t even know what’s going on!”

“Carol…?” Anna murmured sleepily. For some reason, the voice seemed to be coming from overhead, even though she could see Carol’s lips moving. Carol kept laughing, apparently in hysterics.

“Did you take too fucking much, you dumb shit?” Carol sniggered loudly. Anna realised she was laughing at her, and her face went hot with shame. Now that the dreamy part was over, her heart was pounding, and she felt there was something crawling under her skin. Like an itch she couldn’t scratch. Like her blood was on fire. She had to do something about it. Find a way to scratch.

“Get off me,” George growled at Carol, already standing up before she had a chance to get to her feet. Carol ended up wobbling and almost falling backward, mouth open. George completely ignored her, stepping over to Anna. He was a foot taller than her. Anna’s heels were not particularly high, and she felt tiny and insignificant in the sheriff’s huge shadow. She tried to look past him, and caught a brief glimpse of Carol’s face, a scowl burning into her features so hard it might never leave.

“I should…” Anna slurred. “Where’s Becky…?” George chuckled and moved far enough to the side for Anna to see Becky standing against a candlestick and lilting from side to side, in time to the music.

“Seen you at the diner a lot,” George said. “In that little uniform.” He reached out and took a handful of Anna’s hair between his fingers, stroking it. Anna shuddered, and froze. The biting feeling under her skin no longer seemed to matter. She just wanted to leave.

“I… I gotta…” she began.

“You look good with all that blonde hair,” George continued, smirking down his nose at her. “I like blondes. Keeps it interesting.” He stroked her chin. “You’re like a goddess in a red dress.”

“No, I, uh…” Anna stammered, slurred, and stumbled. She tripped backward, landing hard on her side and crying out. As she rubbed at her hip, the shock knocking most of the haze out of her head, she heard Carol laughing again.

“Dumb fuck!” Carol called, screeching with laughter. Still, Anna sensed, it was mostly for show. Carol was jealous, and Anna didn’t blame her, though she knew for certain the sheriff was not worth one iota of Carol’s jealousy. “Look at her, falling on her ass!” Carol continued, spitting with malice. “Anna, you’re so fucking clumsy! You drop so many plates at the diner, I bet when Olivia takes it out at the end, you don’t even get paid!”

“Where’s Becky…” Anna mumbled, trying to stand. Carol took it as a reminder that Becky existed, pulling the other girl into the spotlight by the arm.

“Come on, Becky!” Carol cooed. “It’s your turn. Anna did it. She ate them, come on, it’s your turn now!” Becky, drunker than Anna by far, barely seemed to know what was going on. Carol eventually convinced her to open her mouth, and tipped a handful of seeds into it, sniggering.

“Weird…” Becky mumbled, coughing. Carol took her arms and began swinging her back and forth, dancing. Anna was glad to be out of focus, but as she struggled to get to her feet, Becky’s fate seemed less and less certain.

It only seemed to take a few minutes, although Anna’s sense of time was barely functioning, but soon Becky was moaning quietly under her breath, scratching lazily at her skin. The seeds had got to her. Carol looked up at George, eyes sharp and desperate.

“Did I do good, baby?” she breathed. “I brought them both for you, didn’t I? I got them both to come. I can get you anyone you want. Did I do it right? Did I do good…?”

“Shut the fuck up, Carol,” George snarled. “You’re in the way.” Carol stepped back, crossing her arms, glaring at the floor. George turned his attention on Becky, replacing Carol, and holding her in his arms.

“Carol?” Becky mumbled. “Anna?”

“Forget them,” George ordered. “Focus on me, Becky. Are you like your sister, huh? Can you talk like her?” He laughed to himself. It was a spiteful, mean little sound. “She’s so stuck up, but not you. She thinks she can make the rules. You’re not like that. You don’t even know how pretty you are, do you?” He ran his hands through Becky’s hair, and she shivered, eyes squeezed shut.

“Guys… it isn’t… it’s not cool,” Anna mumbled. Her mouth felt dry and grainy, and she had only just managed to stand up straight. Carol and George ignored her, and she wasn’t certain Becky could hear anything. Anna tried to walk over to them, but each step felt like it took hours.

“Be a good girl for me,” George grunted into Becky’s ear. He pulled her face up and kissed her, fingers and fingernails digging into her cheeks. Carol hung back, face deadly stiff, watching intently. George put a hand on Becky’s back and yanked her closer to him, letting his fingers roam over her like the twitching path of a startled cockroach.

“Quint…?” Becky slurred in between kisses.

“Fuck him, too,” George growled. “Is he here? Forget about him. He’s not good enough to stand up for you. Stay away from him now.”

Carol, apparently struggling to watch events play out, whether because of George or Becky’s part in it, snapped to attention like a rubber band. She grabbed Anna’s camera from the arm of the sofa and held it up, snapping a picture of the sheriff with his hands all over Becky, and laughing.

“Don’t forget to pose!” she spat, venomously. Underneath the overriding sense of fear and panic, Anna felt a wave of anger, slowly rising inside her chest. Carol had arranged all of this. She’d sold the two of them out just to try and win a little approval from her awful, violent, cheating boyfriend, and Anna couldn’t bear it. In an instant, all her feelings for Carol were scattered on the ground and squashed underfoot. And yet, she really felt it would hurt less if she hadn’t cared so much for Carol. She realised, sick at herself, that she had been doing the same thing. She’d been trying to get Carol to like her. She’d brought Becky. It was her responsibility to save her.

“Carol, you gotta fu… just fucking stop!” Anna snapped, her voice still wobbling and slurring in places, but her mind was clear. She grabbed the camera out of Carol’s hands, photograph and all. Carol laughed meanly at her, like the action was petty, pointless.

“Whatever!” she sneered. “Anna’s a buzzkill!” Anna fully intended to be. She grabbed Becky’s arm and, at great effort, managed to wrench her away from the sheriff.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re doing, little girl?” George snarled. Anna almost lost her nerve when he turned on her. He was so much bigger and stronger than her. If he wanted to, he could probably tear her into pieces.

“We gotta go home,” Anna insisted. “We need to go, now.” Carol was laughing in the background. She had spread herself out on the sofa again, legs over the arm, tossing back a drink from the bottle.

“You’re not going until I say so,” George spat. Anna shuddered, but she remained firm. She had to. For Becky.

“If you don’t let us go,” Anna insisted. “I’ll tell.”

“Tell!” George laughed, apparently deeply amused by the idea. “Tell who? Your mother? I’m the sheriff! Who the fuck are you gonna tell?” Anna thought about it, and it came to her.

“That nice lady police deputy!” she said triumphantly. “I’ll tell her what you did to Becky. If you ever come near either of us again, I’ll tell her that fucking minute!” George’s face paled and she realised, by some miracle of luck, that she had him.

“You tell anyone, and I’ll come for you both!” George shouted, as Anna turned to drag Becky out of there. “You think I’m joking? I’ll cut your fucking heads off!” He screamed the last threat after them as Anna mounted the stairs, managing to pull Becky along by her wrist. Anna didn’t breathe until they were outside, under the sky again.

“Becky, I’m so fucking sorry,” she cried, feeling tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. She had always been a bit of a cry baby, when she was younger. It was catching up to her again. Becky was shivering, and a second later she leant forward and retched, throwing up a fluid mess of half-digested red chunks. Anna numbly patted her back.

“I gotta… I gonna go to… car,” Becky mumbled, stumbling towards her car at the far end of the parking lot. Anna let her go. She thought Becky might need a minute to herself.

Anna put her hands over her eyes and felt hot, angry tears streaking down her face. She gritted her teeth and snarled. She stamped her feet. And at the end of it, she was still powerless to do anything.

“I’ll kill him,” she said, cold and steady. In the moment, she meant it more than anything she had ever said, thought, or felt in her life. She had no thought but one: the overwhelming, boiling, all-possessing desire to see George Woodman pay. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Hello there.” Anna gasped in horror at the sound, and as she saw someone in the shadows, a figure she hadn’t noticed in her frenzied escape from the Galaxy of Terror.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly. “Not that you even know… what I was talking about. I didn’t mean anything.” The figure approached her, stepping out of the darkness and into the light.

“I think we could have a lot to talk about,” he said. There was a dark undercurrent to his usual jolly tone. He smiled over at her through a web of teeth. It was Forrest Kaysen.


	52. Never Again

Chapter Fifty-Two. [ Never Again ]

The day after, Anna called in sick to work. She told her mother that she was feeling terrible and wanted to be left alone. Sallie had chosen to take her literally, and had gone off to the Swery 65 for the evening to, she had said, meet with a friend. Anna had been bitter that her mother hadn’t even pretended to try and comfort her, but had been privately glad. She’d waited out the day in her room, and placed a phone call as soon as 8pm rolled around.

Now, she sat on the floor of her bedroom with her back against the wall. She brought a mug up to her lips and took a drink before hacking and putting it back down again.

“Nope,” she said. “I am never going to like tea.”

“It was worth a try,” Michael said, smiling slightly at her. He sat just opposite her on the carpet, legs crossed and back straight like he was being judged on posture.

“My mouth still tastes like I was eating bugs all night,” Anna sighed gloomily. “Probably gonna stay that way for a while… I deserve it.”

“You didn’t know what was going to happen,” Michael said. He had been trying to stress the point since she’d called him over.

“No, but I should have guessed,” Anna protested. “The sheriff is so… it’s just so disturbing. I used to wonder why Carol let him treat her like that, but I guess she’s just… fucking selfish. I hate her for what she did to us. Not for me. For Becky.”

“I understand,” Michael said. He smiled sympathetically, though the expression was clearly strained. He was worried, and he wasn’t hiding it very well. It was nice for someone to be worrying about her, Anna thought. “Carol MacLaine tricked you. And your friend won’t hold it against you.”

“You can just call her Becky,” Anna said. “I suppose I should introduce the two of you. But, oh my god, the idea of us hanging out with Becky and Quint kind of makes my skin crawl. Maybe I don’t really believe in love much right now…” She sighed, slumping further down until just her head and shoulders were resting against the wall.

“You don’t like him,” Michael said, stating the obvious.

“Oh boy, did I give it away?” Anna laughed humourlessly. “No, I don’t. Quint is okay. He was okay. But I feel like these days, he’s all Becky cares about, and why? It’s not like he did anything to help her last night! He couldn’t have done, even if he was there.” She let out a long moan. “But he’s definitely not the worst person in my life right now.”

“George Woodman…” Michael muttered. Anna gave him a thumbs up, falling down onto her back, feeling the soft carpet on the back of her head.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “He’s evil. Like, I really genuinely believe he’s evil. And those weird red seeds he brought… I swear, I’m never eating anything like that again.”

“He fed you _red seeds_?” Michael cried out in alarm. Anna looked up at him, surprised.

“Yeah, he did,” she said. “Why? Have you seen those things before?”

“Ah… Anna,” Michael sighed. “I suppose there are some things I should tell you. Please wait to ask questions until I am through.” Anna looked at the grim expression on his face and knew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant story.

An hour later, Michael had unloaded the story of the Raincoat Killer, Greenvale’s secret massacre, the red seeds and trees, and, finally, his own father’s relationship to George. Anna sat patiently throughout, her eyes widening with shock every few minutes. When he was done, he leant back, looking at her and waiting for her to speak.

“God…” Anna breathed. “That’s… why do you know all that?”

“Mr. Stewart told me,” Michael explained. “He said it was important for me to know the truth about Greenvale.” He stared wistfully into the distance before continuing, in a softer voice. “It’s part of why he doesn’t like me to spend too much time with people. He says that everyone in Greenvale is corrupted, from living here. I wasn’t born here, so he thinks I’ll do better. He would be unhappy if he knew I’d been spending time with you.”

“Wait, everyone in Greenvale is corrupted?” Anna repeated scornfully. “Then why does he live here? He’s from here too!”

“Yes,” Michael admitted. “I believe Mr. Stewart feels a certain bitterness because of everything that’s been taken from him here… Although,” he hesitated. “Sometimes I suspect that he doesn’t wish for me to socialise much, either.”

“I bet,” Anna sighed. “You know, my mom can do that, too. Not as much, obviously, but she gets all like protective of me. She says she’s being protective. Really, she just doesn’t want me to grow up. She wants me to live at home forever, so I’ll always be there to look after her. She never likes me having boyfriends, and some of the guys I dated back before she even tried to warn off me! Like, thanks mom. I don’t have enough problems.” Anna shook her head, frowning. “Maybe why I haven’t even bothered all year. Plus, what’s the point? I never meet anyone nice.”

“Ah, well…”

“Okay, obviously present company excluded,” she laughed, sitting up a little. “Don’t be so anxious! You’re the only person I want to talk to now, anyway. What with Carol… doing what she did. And Becky always going off with Quint. And now, shit, I don’t think I can even face her. Not right now, anyway. I really messed up.” Anna dragged her hair over her face, moaning unhappily. Michael edged closer to her and gently brushed the hair out of the way.

“You’re the only person I want to talk to,” he said. Anna smiled and he smiled back, looking away shyly. She put a hand on his cheek, steering his head back towards her, and then down, bringing him to her lips.

“Mmm… If only it was just the two of us,” she sighed happily. “Too bad for reality.”

“It’s quite a shame,” Michael agreed. “And I should leave soon, I’m afraid, in case Mr. Stewart realises I’m gone.”

“He really keeps you on a short leash,” Anna complained. “I guess he wouldn’t understand if you just told him you had a girlfriend?”

“Do I?” Michael asked, grinning. It was the first time Anna had seen him with such a wide smile and she laughed, touched.

“Sure,” she said, leaning up to kiss him again. “Like I’m gonna get rid of you now. Who else do I have? Besides, I like you. You actually listen to me.”

“And you listen to me,” Michael agreed. “Though I suppose my life isn’t very interesting. I never have much to talk about. What Mr. Stewart asked me to do today, and whether I cleaned the piano before I checked the locks. I must be… boring.” He sighed and pulled his knees up to his chest, shifting unhappily. “Yes. I never really add anything. I must be incredibly boring.”

“Not remotely, stop!” Anna said. She leant her head against his shoulder and felt him rest his cheek against her hair. “Things are better when I’m with you. Like it might work out okay, even if Becky moves out of town, even if I’m stuck working at the diner forever. Even… after what happened with Carol.” She stopped, and let a smile cross her face. “Wherever we go, and whatever happens, Mickey. When I look up at the stars, I'll know you'll be looking up at the same ones,” she quoted. Michael looked at her blankly.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s from a movie,” Anna said, laughing a little to herself. “You never know any movies.”

“Ah,” he said. “No, I don’t. We don’t have a television.”

“That’s weird,” Anna giggled. “You know that’s weird, right?”

“I like to read,” Michael offered, mildly defensive. “I play the piano sometimes.”

“For your dad?” Anna asked dryly. Michael nodded stiffly and turned away from her. “He treats you like total shit,” she added.

“It’s not… he’s been good to me,” Michael murmured. He didn’t have the energy to generate a more extravagant protest. Anna was perfectly ready to object, however.

“Has he?” she pushed. “The way you talk about everything, it sounds like he basically just treats you like a servant, and keeps you locked up in his house all the time. He doesn’t want you to have friends! That’s so messed up! He wouldn’t let you go to school, and even my mom isn’t that bad.”

“No, he educated me perfectly well,” Michael said stiffly. “He is just… concerned that I grow up properly.”

“You mean grow up to be a robot,” Anna retorted. “With no feelings, and no-one to talk to, so you just do everything he says, forever. That’s clearly what it’s like, from everything you said…”

“Then I have been unfair to him. I should not have made it sound so grim,” Michael said, switching back to his comfort habit. Anna sighed quietly to herself. He rarely spoke in rhyme around her now, and she got the impression it was because he felt at ease with her. It wasn’t necessary. In the same way, she hadn’t been forcing herself to smile when she didn’t feel like it nearly as much.

“I just think you deserve to be happier, that’s all,” Anna said, trying to make peace. “After everything that’s happened lately, I think I’m being paranoid about it. I just want the people I care about to, like, be all right. You know?”

“Anna, I appreciate the effort,” Michael said. “But there is nothing I can do. Mr. Stewart has been good to me, ever since we met. That doesn’t mean my life is… perfect.”

“How long ago did you even meet?” Anna asked quietly. She was feeling bitter over the whole thing.

“Ah… six years ago,” Michael started, speaking carefully as if he could slip up at any moment. Anna hoped he wasn’t going to sanitise the story for her sake. “He adopted me when I was fifteen. We met a short while before that, of course. He was very careful in selecting me. I was lucky.”

“Selecting you?” Anna asked. “What, were there tests?”

“Mr. Stewart just wanted to ensure I was… a good fit,” Michael said carefully. “Caring for him has been a delicate job. It’s demanding. If he thought anyone could do it, then I’d… I’d be worthless.”

“Michael… no,” Anna said. “No, no, no.”

“He gave me the bird carving the day he adopted me,” Michael went on. “He made it himself, long ago. It was meant to go to his real son. He had held onto it for a long time, but it’s still incomplete. He never found any eyes for it. He told me he lost inspiration in completing it when he realised he would never be able to give it to his son. And so, when he gave it to me, he told me that he would find the right beads for eyes the day I proved I was a worthy son to him.”

“He said that?!” Anna snapped. “That’s… Michael, that’s awful! Tell me you see that it’s awful?”

“One day,” Michael said longingly. “I will earn that right one day. I always keep the bird with me, so it’ll always be there when the time comes.” He patted his trouser pocket, indicating that he had it now.

“I don’t think he even wanted a son, he just wanted someone to look after him,” Anna said sourly. Michael shot her a glare, and she sensed she was touching on sensitive territory.

“He wanted a son more desperately than anything in the world,” Michael said, hushed. “I am just not good enough yet.”

“Then I guess… maybe one day,” Anna said half-heartedly. She couldn’t see it. The way Michael clamoured for Harry’s attention, despite his obvious disinterest, reminded her of Carol the night before, trying to get George to look at her. Which reminded Anna. “I can’t believe he’s the sheriff’s dad, though,” she added.

“Yes, it’s strange,” Michael said. “It is not obvious.”

“Nope!” Anna agreed. “Hey, between your dad, and Becky’s dad, I think I’m not missing much.”

“What does her father do?” Michael asked.

“Rot in the ground,” Anna snorted. “But he used to hit her mom and stuff, when he was alive. When he drank. He died in a car accident a few years ago, though, and Becky’s sister looked after her instead. She acts like she hates her sister, but I don’t know.”

“Ah. Ms. Diane Ames?” Michael asked.

“Yup. Diane. That’s her,” Anna said. “It would probably be kind of nice to have a sister. At least I always thought so. Do you have any brothers or sisters?” She wanted to bite her tongue as she said it. Another example in the pile of evidence that said she was an airhead.

“I don’t think so,” Michael said.

“Do you not remember your parents at all?” Anna asked. She was curious, but she didn’t want to press the issue if it was delicate. “I don’t remember my dad much anymore. There’s a picture of him in the study, but he just looks like a stranger.”

“I have a few mild flashes, but very little of use,” Michael said miserably. “I do not remember a lot of my earlier life, which I suspect means it was not worth remembering. If I concentrate, I can just make out a face that I think was my mother. She had long brown hair, and… there’s nothing else.”

“I’m sorry, Michael. I wish it had been different,” Anna said. “But I’m glad you moved here, so we could meet. I’d be going nuts without you right now.”

“I think I’m beginning to feel the same,” Michael agreed, speaking delicately. “This has been a complicated, but positive, adjustment for me. I was always quiet, and kept to myself, even before Mr. Stewart adopted me. Which may be one of the reasons he did. So, Anna, I’m trying to express… You are the closest friend I’ve had in my life, and, also… more than that.” They gazed at each other for a moment, letting the words settle in the air.

“I really like you, Michael…” Anna murmured back. “I want us to stay together. I want us to be together.”

“So do I,” Michael said. “We are.”

“Properly,” Anna said, leaning across to him. “I mean properly.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Later, Anna looked over at the clock and saw that it was already eleven. She hadn’t heard the door open, so she presumed her mother would not be back before morning. At this point, it was definitely a relief. The last thing she wanted was to deal with Sallie tonight. She turned to Michael, who was twirling one of her unlit cigarettes about in his hands. It was one of the ones she had got from Carol, she noticed. He could keep it.

“What did you think?” she asked. He looked over at her, startled. He must have been day-dreaming.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it was… it was different.”

“In a good way at least?” Anna asked, prodding him in the arm. He smiled weakly at her.

“Yes,” he said again, though this time she believed him.

“When I was like sixteen or seventeen or whatever, and I’d get drunk with Carol,” Anna said. “Sometimes she’d kiss me and, like, and other stuff. But I think she just thought it was funny. She’s kind of aggressive, really.” Anna scowled to herself. “How I never noticed that before… I don’t know. She’s always been the same. And I’m just some big joke to her. Dumb, funny, Anna. Her little doll, to pick up and throw around.”

“I am so sorry she was able to hurt you so much,” Michael said softly, leaning his face into her hair, kissing the side of her head.

“I wish I could do something about it.” Anna said. She sighed bitterly. “Carol can hurt me if she wants. I practically handed myself over on a plate, like, I know that. But with Becky, it’s too much. Becky never stands up for herself, she lets other people make all her choices. She needs someone to look after her. God! Seeing Carol just standing there, watching, while the sheriff… She deserves something terrible to happen to her!”

“I know,” Michael murmured in agreement. Anna crossed her arms over her chest. 

“You know…” she said slowly. “Something else happened last night.”

“Anna, I really apologise, but I would prefer not to hear something else so upsetting. Not now. Not after we’ve –” Anna waved her hand at him.

“No, no!” she insisted. “After. When I got Becky out of there, there was this guy. He came over to talk to me. I kind of… hadn’t thought about it since then.” She did now, though. Forrest Kaysen, he’d called himself. A travelling salesman. Though he hadn’t been offering any kind of traditional sales pitch. “It just seemed… too strange to be real then,” Anna went on, her tone switching to a vague, dreamy state befitting something she couldn’t believe had really happened. “It was like part of a dream. A weird dream.”

“What did he say?” Michael asked.

“He said he could make things happen. He said he could help me get what I want,” Anna said cautiously. She wasn’t sure how Michael was going to react to her story. She hadn’t quite decided her own reaction yet. “But I’m not sure… if he was playing a prank on me.”

“Be careful,” Michael said. “This does not sound safe.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Anna argued. “It wasn’t about normal stuff. He wasn’t offering me money, or anything. It was… really different to that.”

“How?” Michael asked.

“He told me a story,” Anna said quietly, as if she was telling a secret. “That there’s a way to get what you want, if you’re willing to bargain. If you want it enough… you can have anything you want.” Michael was staring levelly at her, reserving judgement, though she could almost feel the disapproval coming off him like sweat. “You just have to make a trade.”

“What exactly do you have to trade…?” Michael asked, unable to mask his concern in the least.

“People,” Anna whispered. “You have to trade people.”

“Excuse me?” Michael had twisted around to face her, reaching out to put an arm on her shoulder. He was worried, but Anna was not. She felt like she was dreaming, as she repeated what Forrest Kaysen had told her.

“He said… you have to kill four people. And if you do it right, you get everything you want. You become so powerful that no-one can ever hurt you again.” Anna stared into space. Her eyes were unfocused, and in her mind she saw Carol, and her mother, and George, and a host of others, dozens of faces staring back at her. Staring back at her from below. She floated over them, looking down on them. She saw Quint, and Harry Stewart, and the various people who had called her stupid, an airhead, dumb, dumb Anna. And she heard nothing. Because they couldn’t reach her. They could stretch up their arms, but she was too high, and they would never touch her again.

“Anna? Anna!” Michael was saying, when she started paying attention again. She looked at him, blinking. “That’s ridiculous. What a disturbing idea. Whoever told you that was just trying to take advantage of you. Or disturb you. What a… that’s unimaginable.”

“Sure. I know,” she agreed. But inside, in the back of her mind, she remembered. Repeating over and over, like words scrolling down a page, read aloud. You’d get everything you want. Everything you want. And no-one would ever hurt you again.

Never hurt you again.

Never again.


	53. Doubts

Chapter Fifty-Three. [ Doubts ]

The next time Anna went to see Becky at her house, she took Michael with her. The conversation was stilted, and resulted in Michael sitting by himself, away from the two girls. An almost exact opposite of the times when Quint was there instead.

Becky didn’t look well. Her skin had a kind of unhealthy, chalky quality to it, and she didn’t look like she’d slept more than a few hours in the past few days. Her hair was greasy, and she was still wearing pyjamas under her hooded jacket. Anna, needless to say, was worried.

“Did you tell him?” Becky said suddenly, interrupting a much more neutral conversation about their graduation ceremony. She looked over at Michael with a glare and he unhappily lifted the magazine he had been flipping through to separate himself from the other half of the room. Anna looked apologetic, feeling guilty about Becky’s reaction.

“Kind of,” Anna admitted. “Not… not _details_.”

“Great!” Becky snapped. “I can’t believe this. What if he tells someone? What if… what if Quint knew? What if he got angry with me? I can’t even express how much I couldn’t deal with that!”

“Who would he tell?” Anna snapped in return. “He’s not like that! And if Quint cares so much, maybe he should have been there for you. He’s not been there for you since it happened, has he? You can’t even tell him, in case he freaks out.”

“Look, Anna, I know sometimes Quint and I get a bit… focused,” Becky said, rolling her eyes. “But we love each other. Maybe one day you’ll know what it’s like to find your soulmate, too.” Becky shot another callous look at Michael, who was guiltily pretending not to exist, as he disappeared into the pages of the magazine.

“Maybe I will,” Anna said pointedly. “Maybe you will too.”

“Why do I even bother…” Becky groaned. Anna sighed. She put her arms around Becky and hugged her. Becky returned the gesture.

“I’m sorry,” Anna said. “I just don’t like that you can’t trust him. First it’s over him and Carol, and now it’s all this. You should be able to trust the person you love.”

“I can… mostly,” Becky admitted uneasily. “I don’t want him to know what happened. That’s all. He was talking about the future again, and getting married and stuff. He’s so happy. I think, maybe in a year or so… I’m actually gonna think about doing it.”

“You’re gonna marry him?” Anna repeated numbly, her voice raising with shock. “Why? What are you gonna do?”

“Well, maybe when I go off to college…” Becky suggested, shrugging. “And then we could live together.”

“I thought maybe we’d live together,” Anna said. “In an apartment, in Seattle. We talked about it all the time! Why are you doing this?”

“Yeah, we talked about it for years, when we were teenagers,” Becky said, her tone a little too harsh. “We’re adults now. We can’t do that stuff. Anyway, I’m gonna go to college sometime, and…” She hesitated, already aware that what she was about to say was mean. “It’s not like you are,” she finished, quietly. Anna sat for a second, silent.

“I’m gonna get a job,” she said stonily. “In Seattle. Or wherever! I’ve been saving money from the diner… I have a plan.”

“It’s a kid plan, Anna,” Becky said gently. She picked up Anna’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I’m sorry. I know you want to get out of here and do something, I just… I dunno. Isn’t it time to like really think things through? Anyway, you’ll be okay.”

“How will I be okay?” Anna said under her breath. “I don’t want you to run off and leave me.”

“I know… and I’m not, not right now. I’ll be here another year.” Becky sounded like she was apologising. She was, Anna realised. Her plan was much more fully formed than she wanted to admit. “But it’ll be okay. You’ve got… other people now, right?” Becky gestured toward Michael. She was not being remotely subtle.

“You’re my best friend,” Anna protested. “I’m not replacing you! Unless… you’re gonna replace me? Just like that. Was this all Quint’s idea? Is that it?” The word Quint had turned into a hiss.

“Some of it’s his idea. Some of it’s mine. It’s just being practical,” Becky insisted. “When graduation’s over, stuff’s gotta change. You get that, right?”

“Yeah, I get that,” Anna said roughly. “I’m getting that.”

“So… there you go,” Becky said. “I can’t keep playing these games, with secret clubs and secret boyfriends. It’s fucked up!”

“I told you!” Anna said desperately. “I can’t tell anyone about him cause of his dad, and the club… I didn’t know! I really didn’t fucking know, Becky! I tried to fix it as soon as it went wrong! I got you out! I got you out, Becky, you know I got you out!”

“I know, Anna…” Becky mumbled. She cast her eyes downward, hugging her arms around herself, closing up. “But it was still too much.”

“I’m so sorry… if I’d known, or I could have stopped it sooner…”

“Don’t apologise, Anna, it’s okay,” Becky said quietly, resigned. Anna tried to get Becky to look at her, but she wouldn’t, lolling her head and refusing to focus on anything. Anna could tell that something inside Becky was broken after that night. Maybe her now urgent drive to get away from Greenvale came from that. Maybe she just wanted to escape.

“Well, I am sorry…” Anna mumbled.

“Anna, even if I go,” Becky said, switching topics to get away from the memory of what had happened as fast as possible. “You’ll always be important to me. We’ll stay friends.”

“Yeah,” Anna agreed weakly. “We’ll stay friends.” She wanted to believe it.

♦ ♦ ♦

As Michael and Anna left Becky’s house, Anna kicked at a patch of grass and let out a hiss. Michael waited for her to relax, watching calmly as she stamped a flower into mush and then forced herself to take a long breath.

“I know she talked about marrying Quint before, but it’s so stupid!” Anna snarled bitterly. “She thought he was cheating with Carol, even! How can she trust him?”

“You told me that he wasn’t,” Michael pointed out.

“I know he wasn’t,” Anna sighed. “But she still doesn’t trust him, that’s the point. And if she can’t bring herself to tell him about what happened the other night, then how can she act like they’re soulmates? That’s just… it’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps she would find it too painful to discuss. So she doesn’t want to talk about it again, even to tell him. Especially knowing it would make him sad.” Anna frowned at Michael, but her expression slowly melted into a weak smile.

“Great voice of reason act,” she admitted. “I don’t know. I just don’t think he’s good for her. Becky’s so great, you know? I mean, you didn’t really get a chance to meet her when she’s happy even, but she is so great usually. She’s like, really funny and we always joke around and it’s always fun when it’s just the two of us. Quint kind of wrecks that dynamic? Man, he’s so… You know, even if he had been there that night, he couldn’t have done anything. The sheriff would have just ripped him in half.”

“That is unfortunate,” Michael agreed. “But he might have tried.”

“I dunno,” Anna argued. “He’s kind of wet.” She decided to drop it, already knowing something else she wanted to talk about. “Hey, you know what?” she said. “I had this thought.”

“Yes?” Michael asked.

“So… that story you told me. About the fairy tale? The raincoat guy?” Anna said, smiling mischievously. “You know?”

“The legend of the Raincoat Killer,” Michael corrected curtly. “I am aware.”

“Okay, so, listen to this,” Anna went on. “Wouldn’t that link in perfectly with, like… what I was telling you about? What that guy told me. The… the whole…”

“You are not going to mention that disturbing… ritual, again, I hope,” Michael sighed. Anna raised her hands defensively.

“I just mean as an idea! Isn’t it kind of cool, though?” she pushed. “You have this creepy old story which, oh my god, is totally real. Add that to this idea that you can get what you want by doing this creepy sacrifice thing, and boom! It just… I thought it worked.”

“Perhaps in a horror story, it might work,” Michael conceded. “This is reality.”

“Yeah, yeah, and it was just an idea,” Anna said quickly. “You know, though… I did some research online. I don’t know if this is just a joke or whatever, but there were other people who said that like they met a guy similar to the one I did. In theory.”

“How did you find out about that?” Michael asked. He was looking at Anna sceptically, and she knew he wouldn’t warm up when she added the next piece of information.

“They… tried out what he said,” she admitted meekly. Michael stopped still.

“Killed people,” he challenged, stiffly. Anna shrugged unhappily.

“Yeah…” she admitted. “But none of them did it right. They didn’t do four, or they didn’t follow the rules all the way.”

“Anna, this is not real,” Michael said forcefully, shaking her arm. “This is an idea that has got into your head, and I understand why. You are vulnerable right now. You can’t let this get into your head. It was a sick joke someone tried to play on you. Please, for both our sakes, drop this.”

“I know,” Anna said softly, but inside, she was torn. “He was so… persuasive. Cause who would listen to some strange guy on the street normally, right? Especially when it’s like this.”

“Yes, he must have been,” Michael said, letting himself relax slightly. “He seems unusual.”

“Unusual,” Anna repeated. “Yeah. I’m not even sure he was a guy, at all.”

“What do you mean?” Michael asked.

“I kind of think he was more like… a demon,” Anna muttered.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next week, after midnight, Anna and Michael were in his bedroom in the Stewart mansion. It was the first time Anna had visited, and Michael had made her swear to be quiet, lest they be discovered. They had settled into sitting together and whispering, fearful to risk raising their voices above a low purr. Anna was less entranced by the secrecy of it than Michael.

“I wish we had somewhere we could be together,” she said. “I heard some people at school go to the lumber mill sometimes. You know that old place? We could go there.”

“It’s dangerous,” Michael countered. Anna did not comment that apparently everywhere was dangerous. She was only able to be there now because Sallie believed she was sleeping over at Becky’s house, and Becky had agreed to cover for them if there were any follow up questions.

“Maybe if I had a car…” Anna muttered, blowing at her hair and watching the golden strands twirl about. “We could at least hang out places easier then. It’s not exactly easy when you’re worried about taking your dad’s huge car out. I mean, if someone sees that then, hello! I think people wouldn’t need to knock on the window to know who it belonged to.”

“Parking is also rather difficult,” Michael added dryly. Anna giggled. “Though,” he went on. “Mr. Stewart does own other cars. I suppose… on a temporary basis, I could suggest that one of them was in need of some repairs.”

“And what… borrow it?” Anna asked excitedly. Michael hushed her. “Okay, but, really? Do you think I could… borrow one for a while? I mean, I can drive, I just, like, cars are way too expensive. Becky’s lucky she could just buy one whenever she wanted. She can buy whatever! Well, if her sister says it’s okay.”

“For a short while,” Michael stressed. “That might be possible.”

“Perks!” Anna joked. Then, when Michael pressed a finger to his lips to remind her to keep quiet for the third time that hour, more seriously: “There’s gotta be some, after all.”

“What do you mean?!” Michael asked, forgetting his own rule to whisper for a moment. Anna immediately felt guilty watching his anxious reaction take over.

“I didn’t mean…” she sighed. “I meant this whole… secret thing. Not you. I really… everything’s good with you, okay? I just wish we could maybe relax.”

“It would be nice,” Michael agreed weakly. “I think we will, one day. When things improve.”

“You mean when your dad decides he loves you?” Anna asked. “And my mom learns to chill the fuck out and let me have a life? Gotta wonder when exactly that day is coming.” Michael looked away gloomily, unable to argue. Anna groaned. “One day. Everything is one fucking day, right? One day, people will change. Never mind how long. It’s not like we’re waiting, or anything.”

“But things will get better!” Michael insisted. “I always hold out hope that things keep improving, so long as you make yourself keep moving.” He hesitated, and then mumbled, under his breath, “he will accept me one day. One day I’ll do enough. One day he’ll let go of the past.”

“Soon, I hope,” Anna said, though she said it softly. She didn’t have it in her heart to be contrary over this, not when Michael talked about it so often. “He is getting older.”

“So, soon he will realise,” Michael said, though Anna felt his point did not follow. He was blinded by hope, and she wasn’t going to crush it. She smiled instead, and nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah…” She scowled. “God! If he knew, I mean, about what the sheriff is actually like, then it’d be no contest! If anyone knew… but if I tell them, then I know he’ll come after me. Oh my god, can you even imagine that guy coming after you? He’s huge… I’d stand no chance.”

“Anna, he won’t,” Michael insisted, taking her hand. “George Woodman will leave you alone. After all, you could end his career. It may not be a welcome solution, but this is a stalemate.”

“Yeah!” Anna hissed. “Until he gets cocky and picks on someone else! There’s loads of other girls at school he could go after. Or he could hurt Becky again. Michael, you weren’t there. It was sick. It was evil! And if he hadn’t stopped when he did, I couldn’t have done anything! I hate it. I hate feeling… powerless.” She shook her head, trying to resist the sudden urge to cry. She didn’t want to be a cry baby anymore. This was serious. It wasn’t something that would wash away with her tears.

“I’m here,” Michael whispered. “We’ll be safe together. You just need to stay away from him.”

“Sure, and then it’s A-OK Anna, but what about everyone else?” Anna asked. “If he did anything… anything worse to Becky, then I couldn’t handle it, okay? I just couldn’t.”

“Yes, I know…” Michael murmured unhappily. “But neither of us can do anything.”

“I don’t want to be powerless anymore,” Anna repeated, unable to completely quell the tears which seemed to be rising at the back of her throat. “I want to feel safe.” Michael pulled her in close to him, stroking her hair with one hand and hugging her.

“Anna…” he whispered into her hair. “Anna, I love you. I love you.” Anna drew back, holding him at arm’s length, staring.

“What?” she asked, coming off nervously. “Don’t joke around with that, it’s not funny.”

“No, I do,” he insisted. He reached up to hold onto her arms, and his fingers were gently shaking. “I’m serious. Completely serious. I’m certain.”

Anna could remember a time when, jokingly, lightly, Carol had suggested the same. ‘Love you, Anna!’, ‘I love you, baby’. Never serious. Never certain. But there had always been hope, in Anna’s heart, that the joke was funnier because it was true. She thought now, the idea of it stinging in her stomach, that her hopes then had been as useless as Michael’s steady insistence that he just needed to do a little more, work a little harder, until Harry finally gave him the pat on the head he craved. And Anna, she realised, had had just as much chance of it coming true for her as he did of it coming true for him. That was to say, none. If Anna had been feeling generous, she may also have thought to herself that Carol was in the same position herself, desperately waiting for George to pick her out of all the others, and brush everyone else away like wood shavings. Some things did not happen, regardless of hope.

“I know…” Anna mumbled. “I know you mean it.” Michael kissed her with an urgency she should have expected. When he pulled away, his eyes were searching her expression for clues.

“And…?” he breathed. “Do you love me?” Anna thought about it. She could not shake, oddly, the many things Becky had said on the subject. That when you found your ‘soulmate’, as she insistently called it, you would immediately know. The more times Becky said it – confident, knowing, secure – the less Anna believed her. There was no reality in which Anna would accept that Becky and Quint had been built together, made as one. Carved in the heavens by some judgemental hand, pried apart, and then flung down to find one another again. She could never accept such a thing. Which meant that, sitting there in Michael’s bedroom, whispering to one another in secret, she was not sure. She was not sure at all, and while she knew that he meant every word that he had said, really, she couldn’t say he was actually sure either. Then she remembered how, for years, she had been sure. She had been sure that Carol was her friend. That the doubts and insecurities she had shared with the other girl were secrets, that Carol would protect them. She had been sure that Carol loved her, in some way, for there were so many ways. She had known, certainly, in her heart, that Carol would never have hurt her. Never ever. And yet, Anna remembered painfully, and yet. Here they were. And it turned out, after everything, that being sure didn’t mean anything at all.

“I love you,” Anna said back. “Yeah. I do.” She watched as his face shifted instantly into a smile of deep relief, and she decided that being certain was overrated. Being sure about something didn’t change the reality. That, she thought, was left up to your actions.

A while later, after several aborted attempts at quiet conversation, which always ended up interrupted by Michael repeating, over and over, “I love you. You love me. We love each other.” Just checking, each time, that it hadn’t somehow been taken away in the last few minutes.

“You know…” Anna began, teasing out the words slowly. She realised, as she had every other time she’d tried to bring the topic up, that it was going to be unpopular. “I was thinking about that thing again. The whole… the Raincoat Killer, and everything?”

“Anna…” Michael began, but she cut him off, having expected a protest.

“No, listen,” she insisted. “I was thinking, like, wouldn’t it be a good way to scare people? I mean think about it. The sheriff never does anything, like, big. Nothing major ever happens in Greenvale. There’s no way he’d be ready for it if it did. Wouldn’t it be great if he thought there was like some freaky killer in town, and he got freaked out cause suddenly _he_ was the one who couldn’t do anything?” She smirked to herself. “I’d love to see that. See his face.”

“I can see why that appeals,” Michael admitted. “He does deserve… something. Though, Anna, you could get in a lot of trouble for trying to play a prank on the police.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Anna said. “You’d have to be super careful. But you have to admit, wouldn’t it be great? See how he likes being the powerless one. See how he likes it… when it happens to him.”

“I think so…” Michael said uncertainly. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about?”

“Yes,” Anna said carefully. “I think it would be good. I want him to pay for it. For everything. I want someone to show him what it feels like.”

“You need to be careful, Anna. You cannot get obsessed,” Michael warned gently. “He is the sheriff, he is older and stronger than you, and he is a disgusting person who tried… to hurt you before. I could not live with myself if I let you go down this path, and watched him…”

“What?” Anna said stiffly. “Kill me? Or did you mean worse?”

“Either,” Michael muttered. “Either would be unbearable.”

“Will you just help me?” Anna pressed forward, insistent. She had run through this idea in her head a few times. This idea, and others. A part of her felt guilty, especially after his confession tonight, that she was dragging Michael into her ploy for revenge. But this, unlike some things, she was certain of.

“What with, exactly?” Michael asked, twisting uncomfortably, and running a hand through his hair. Anna had noticed that he’d picked up and begun to mimic her habit of playing with her hair when stressed, and found it cute.

“I had this idea to write something,” she said. “Like, letters. From the Raincoat Killer, or whatever. Then we could send them to him and watch him freak out. What do you think?”

“It could work, if you wanted it to,” Michael unhappily admitted. “You need to make sure you aren’t discovered. You could get hurt.”

“Sure!” Anna agreed, feeling a rush of excitement at his eventual agreement. “Yeah, no fingerprints or anything. But I really… it would make me feel better.” She stressed her last sentence, trying to drive the point home. Michael sighed. He had no intention of fighting her on it now.

He got up from the floor, walking over to his desk, and withdrawing a notebook. He skimmed the pages to confirm that it was mostly blank, and then handed it to her. Anna was careful not to touch the pages, though she did notice, from opening the cover, that he had used it to attempt some poems in the past. Attempt being the right word. None of them were more than two, hastily scribbled over, lines long. She smiled to herself.

“Here,” Michael said, handing her a glove.

“Yup,” Anna laughed, taking it. “Always use protection.” Michael loudly cleared his throat before sitting back down beside her. He placed a pen down on the floor, and she took it, twirling it in her hand, before shaking her head.

“Do you not know what to write?” he asked.

“Oh no, I know,” she said. “It’s just… your handwriting is way better than mine. You can do all that fancy stuff. Mine looks stupid.” She held out the pen for him to take and he looked at it for several long seconds before eventually accepting it.

“Very well…” he said. “Then, tell me what to write.” Anna waited for him to put on the glove and pause, pen ready, over the unmarked page.

“Okay,” she said. “Start it off like this. The Legend of the Raincoat Killer…”

Michael began to write, under her instruction, creating four elegant notes in his beautifully looped, elaborate handwriting. He did not question the number, or the words. When he had finished, he carefully tore each note out of the book, leaving no fingerprints. They were all flowery, convoluted snippets befitting the kind of fictional killer Anna had said she wanted to imitate. For a prank, it was perhaps over the top. But Anna had no intention of using the notes for a simple prank. Such ideas were behind her.

She had already made up her mind.


	54. Making Sacrifices

Chapter Fifty-Four. [ Making Sacrifices ]

Michael never asked Anna why, over the following weeks, there had been no update on her plan to trick the sheriff with the notes they had created together. Presumably, she supposed, he had hoped that she had moved on, forgetting her plan, decrying it as foolish. Instead, they were able to pass the time in a largely happy blur, almost forgetting the problems that were still biting at their ankles. As far as Michael was concerned, the only times when they were reminded of the truth were the days when they were with Becky and she suddenly gazed off into space, remembering some detail of that night, or when she mentioned Quint and immediately went quiet at the thought of the secret she hadn’t told him. That, and the times when the sheriff came into the diner, either with his deputies or, worse, alone. When he came in alone, he often shot lingering, daring looks at Anna that were designed to remind her that she had no power over him, that he was in control. Michael had witnessed one such occasion, when he had come in with Harry to collect their lunch. He had asked Anna about it later, worried, but she had told him not to bring it up, and he had relented.

Following Michael’s confession of love came an admittance that they were limited as a couple. They struggled for time to see each other at either of their homes, and Anna seemed less and less interested in telling anyone other than Becky that they were dating, suggesting, among other things, that the sheriff might spitefully tell her mother about their relationship just to hurt her. Michael had agreed that George would be petty enough to do it. They needed other places to go, and a way to get there. And so, in the one major upside to their situation so far, he had offered to follow through on lending Anna one of Harry’s less-used cars. Seeing as Harry couldn’t drive himself, and always insisted on Michael taking the largest and most lavish car into Greenvale anyway, it was unlikely he would even miss it. If he did, Michael would tell him that it was at Lysander’s junkyard, facing repairs. Anna had been delighted. She always parked it a street away from home, by a large abandoned house on its own corner, on Brownie Street. No-one would ever know, she said.

Graduation came around, and though most people in her class were talking about college and jobs and what they were going to do with the rest of their lives, Anna was sombre on the day. Her mother began talking about taking a trip together to celebrate, but Anna kept putting it off. She noticed that Sallie seemed to assume that she wouldn’t be moving out at any point. The implication was that Anna would keep living at home, and working at the diner. It made it difficult to get excited.

“What’s the point?” she had said one night to Michael, as they sat on the dock by Lake Cranberry, at the back of the lumber mill. It was always quiet, and they’d taken to coming there to sit, on nights when Sallie thought Anna was at Becky’s house. “Graduation is meant to be a turning point. But when you’re not going anywhere, it’s just other people turning away from you.”

Becky had made no plans to leave her job at the Milk Barn, yet, but she had made it clear that the situation was temporary. She didn’t need the money, after all, unlike Anna. Every conversation would slowly come around to where she was going to go now that school had ended. When she’d start looking for her own apartment somewhere, so she could leave the cavernous, festering family home she had come to hate behind. Every time Becky spoke excitedly about the future, she talked about leaving her old life behind. Starting her new life. And every time, Anna noticed, Becky would talk about how Quint fitted into it, but never think to mention Anna. The implication, Anna was forced to conclude, was that Quint was going to be a part of Becky’s new life, and Anna was not. Quint was the one who would be helping Becky pack up boxes, drive across the country, and join her in crossing over the threshold of their new home. Anna would be the one to get a folded invitation card to their wedding in the mail, which she would open in the same bedroom she had lived in since childhood.

Whenever Anna mentioned it to Michael, who was quickly becoming the only person she could mention anything to, he tried to excite her about the possibilities of her own future. When she talked about Becky going off to college, he reminded her that she could still attempt the career in modelling that had been suggested to her. When she talked about Becky and Quint planning their lives together, he pointed out that they had each other, too. And, on one particularly vitriolic occasion, when Anna ranted about Becky’s fantasy of throwing a huge wedding with the money her parents had left her in inheritance, a ridiculous amount that Anna could not even imagine possessing, Michael had shyly pointed out that he expected to receive quite a large inheritance himself, and that the idea would not be out of their reach. Anna had been horrified and, for the first time all year, felt bad for Quint. This was probably how he had felt when he realised he couldn’t afford to buy an engagement ring for Becky, something which Anna had thought was stupid when he’d brought it up, but which she now understood. The largest appeal of having money was that you were free. You had options. Becky could easily afford to move to the city if she wished, and pay for a moving truck and a new car and a collection of furniture while she was at it. Quint could only go with her if she wanted him to. That was why he had worried, Anna realised. It was conditional. He wanted to go with her on his own two feet. Not in her luggage. It was even worse for her, Anna had decided. Unlike Becky, Michael didn’t have anything of his own. Everything was attached by winding strings that tied back to Harry, wrapping Michael up and trapping him in the web that he refused to admit was even there. Nothing of Harry’s came for free. It was not, she thought, an option.

As far as Anna was concerned, there was only one option. Something she had been keeping at the back of her mind, bringing out every time she needed a crutch. The only problem was how to start. The man, if that was the right word, that she had met on that night outside the Galaxy of Terror had not exactly hung around to chat. Their conversation had been fairly brief, as she had been far less certain at the time about its contents. The research she had done online had only told her that, yes, he did seem to exist and, yes, trying to follow through on what he’d told her about was a bad idea. Everyone else who was mentioned on the internet as being connected to the story, was a killer who had babbled about it after being caught. None of them had been remotely successful. Though, Anna thought, the successful ones probably weren’t caught.

She was walking home from the diner one evening after a late shift, when someone put a hand on her shoulder. Immediately suspecting that it was George, finally following through on his many implied threats, she lurched around, fists raised in a vain attempt at protection. Forrest Kaysen laughed heartily at her and she lowered her arms in embarrassment.

“Why, hell, you’re a little spitfire. I was right about you!” Kaysen chuckled to himself. Anna flushed and glowered at him.

“Were you following me?” she asked. “That’s so creepy.”

“Heck, I don’t need to follow you,” Kaysen answered, offering her an unsettling smile. “I knew I’d find you when I had to. So. How’re you handling it? The idea of all that power. It’s something a little girl like you might want, right?”

“I’m not a little girl!” Anna snarled. “I’m not a stupid kid. I’m an adult. I want people to respect that. Isn’t that the whole point of your little game? Or were you just lying to me, after all…?”

“All right, all right,” Kaysen said, curtailing his laughter. “I can see you’re a businesswoman waiting to happen. You appreciate a good bargain, don’t you?”

“Or a deal with the devil,” Anna muttered. “That’s what you are, right?” Kaysen smirked to himself. He seemed to find everything about Anna’s attitude funny, and it put her off.

“Gee,” he said playfully. “I don’t know that I quite earn that title. All I can say is that I have friends in high places, if you know what I mean. I have certain… options, that I can provide. I am a salesman, like I said. But are you interested in buying?” Before Anna could answer, she heard a bark and, looking down, saw a Dalmatian sitting on the ground behind Kaysen’s legs. She hadn’t noticed it because it hadn’t made a single sound before the one, deliberate bark. She curled her lip, disturbed.

“Yes,” Anna admitted. “I am. But I don’t wanna be dumb about it. I’m not gonna get caught.”

“Oh, sure! Now, good for you!” Kaysen laughed to himself. It was a mean sort of laugh, Anna thought, and it didn’t exactly ring with confidence. “I can see you’ve planned it all out in that pretty head of yours already. You don’t need any convincing.”

“No, I don’t,” she said firmly. “I just need to know what to do.” Kaysen grinned, shaking his head in amusement.

“All righty then, little Miss. You remember what I told you. Four bodies, that’s all it takes.”

“I know, I know,” Anna hissed. “Come on!”

“You really are eager to get stuck in!” Kaysen laughed. “And what, exactly, are you gonna do with all that power when you get it? Hmm?” He paused momentarily, but Anna refused to answer, simply staring coldly back at him. “You got some mean girls from your homecoming committee to take down a peg? Or do you want to put a little love spell on some cute boyfriend or other?”

“No. I want to kill people,” Anna said coolly. “And then I want to be happy, where no-one can ever hurt me again.” Kaysen shot her a look that she supposed was admiring, but every expression he seemed able to conjure was tainted with a slight inhumanity which made it off-putting.

“Then you’re almost all set already,” he said, smirking. “I’ll tell you what. You want to know the rules, dontcha? And get straight to work!” Anna nodded. “It’s very simple,” Kaysen told her. “Four people, that’s the rule. It has to be four, no tricks. No shortcuts. No combos. Four separate murders. They can’t say anything as they die. Now, that’s a handy rule in general. Keep them from screaming and you’re on easy street! But, seriously now, if you want them to count, they have to be quiet while you do your work. Think you can manage that?”

“Yes. I can,” Anna said firmly. “Four people… and they can’t talk. That’s easy.”

“Sure, sure, it seems easy now,” Kaysen chided her playfully. “Just you give it a go and see.”

“I’m going to!” Anna insisted. Kaysen resorted to chuckling again and she found herself clenching her fists.

“One more thing,” he said. “Each victim needs to eat these certain red seeds. But, you know all about those, don’t you now?” Anna nodded stiffly. She remembered the seeds perfectly, in a vivid detail that would not fade away no matter how much she wished it would. The memory of being fed them still remained strongly with her, and she maintained her promise to never eat them again. She remembered what Michael had told her as well, from Harry’s story. The red seeds in, she presumed, a larger dose than what Carol and George enjoyed recreationally, had driven people to such a level of violence that the story persisted in some forms today. The Legend of the Raincoat Killer, as she had described it in the note, was really just another story of the destruction the red seeds could cause.

“I’ve seen them,” she said. “I know where to get them. Piece of cake.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble force-feeding them to your unlucky chosen sacrifices, will you?” Kaysen asked. He almost sounded sarcastic, as if he was daring her. But then he was, wasn’t he, Anna realised. That was the whole point. If he didn’t think she could succeed, then he wouldn’t have to follow through on his other promises.

“Yeah, totally,” she agreed, shrugging. Kaysen shook his head, grinning at her confidence.

“Good luck with your little attempt,” he cooed. “I’m sure it’s gonna be just spectacular!” He turned to leave, the dog clambering to its feet to follow.

“Wait!” Anna called out. “How do I find you afterwards? You know, so you can actually deliver?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, my little lady,” Kaysen sneered. “Didn’t I say I could find you when I had to? Now, I’m a man of my word. And I have a suspicion you’ll start feeling pretty lucky if you make a start on your plan. So just let it happen and, what do people say? Smell the roses.” He disappeared off down the road and Anna was left considering the deal. It was very real suddenly. There was no more pretending. It wasn’t a game. It was going to happen, if she wanted it to.

“Four people,” she mumbled to herself. “Some’ll be easier than others…” Anna didn’t need to dwell on three of her future victims. They had been picked long in advance, as the central figures in her personal morality play. She would not think twice. The fourth was a much harder decision. She had tried to think of someone who deserved it, and had drawn a blank. There were only three people in her life she wanted to dispose of, and that was one short. She would just have to compromise. The idea had finally come to her the night before, when she’d once again been thinking through her potential plan, and though she’d initially rejected it, nothing better had occurred to replace it. She realised now, after the seemingly random reappearance of Forrest Kaysen, that he had probably sought her out the moment she arrived at a decision on all four of her victims. Which meant, in her heart, she had made up her mind.

“I’m sorry,” Anna whispered, the apology quickly disappearing in the night air. “Maybe you’ll thank me for it eventually, Becky.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The graveyard was always quiet, always empty. Anna did not worry that anyone would see her going there to collect the red seeds she needed for her plan. With school over for good, she could go in the middle of the day. It was almost pleasant, staring into the woods that lined the area. Perhaps if she’d just been casually walking through, it would have been. With a bag full of the seeds, Anna turned to go, and screamed. She was not alone after all.

There was a man standing on the other side of the fence. His clothes were old-fashioned and his skin was distinctly grey. He was looking eagerly back at her, clearly biting his tongue in anticipation of starting a conversation. Anna would let him speak first. She was still trying to understand how he had snuck up on her.

“Y-you’ve… spent time… with that one,” the man said. He sounded quite cheerful for someone hanging around a graveyard, Anna thought to herself.

“Who? What?” Anna stammered.

“The one… from the t-trees,” he explained, and Anna realised he was referring to Forrest. “You can… s-see me, so you… were with him,” he added.

“See you?” Anna said numbly. “Oh… you’re…” It occurred to her just what sort of person she was likely to find moving soundlessly through a graveyard. A month or two ago, she wouldn’t have believed it, but after meeting Forrest Kaysen, she was much more open-minded.

“Y-yes,” he said. “I’m… B-Brian.”

“Brian,” Anna repeated. “I’m Anna. You’re a ghost. Wow, that’s… okay.”

“Not many p-people… see me,” Brian said regretfully. “I sp-spend all my time… a-alone here.” Anna found it difficult to feel much sympathy. She wasn’t in the business of feeling sorry for ghosts. She couldn’t imagine many people were.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s hard,” she said flatly. “I’m kind of busy right now? But, maybe I’ll like see you around some time.” Before she could try to edge past him, Brian pointed sharply to the bag in her arms. She twitched.

“Red s-seeds,” he said, features twitching into a smile. “You came… for the s-seeds?”

“Yeah,” Anna admitted unhappily. “You know about them?”

“The red seeds m-massacre,” Brian answered. “They… k-killed me.” Anna went cold at the mention of that old story, one she was sure few people knew. If people did, was it possible to trace the knowledge of that story from Harry to Michael to her? The fact that this apparent ghost had died that day practically went straight past her head.

“Oh my god…” Anna muttered. “Uh, yeah. You were murdered?”

“Y-yes… murdered,” Brian repeated, tasting the word as if he hadn’t said it in a long time. “You… want the s-seeds? Other people… come too.”

“Yes, I know that,” Anna said coldly, face clouding. “Carol and the sheriff. But they’re just playing games. They think these seeds are just for fun.” The idea still disgusted her, reminding her of that night at the Galaxy of Terror. As if she could forget.

“Th-they don’t… see me,” Brian said. “Only… you. Only those w-who… have been around… him.” So, Anna realised. Bonding with Forrest meant seeing ghosts as well. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Hopefully it was temporary.

“So Carol never met you?” she asked. “You couldn’t talk to her even if you wanted to?” Brian shook his head, tilting his hat back slightly as he did and smiling. Anna supposed he was trying to look friendly, but it just felt weird to her.

“You s-seem… too nice… to play with th-those seeds,” Brian suggested carefully. He was still smiling, and Anna realised he was trying to flatter her. Now she felt especially weird.

“Gee, thanks,” she muttered. “Uh… you won’t tell anyone I was here, will you? I mean, even if you… if you could.”

“I w-won’t,” Brian promised. “If anyone… a-asks. It is our… secret. Anna.”

“Thanks,” Anna said slowly. She let herself smile back, her usual overly winning grin, and noticed that Brian’s lip twitched a little further upwards in appreciation. “That’s so sweet of you…” she added. “To help me out.”

“I… I w-would like to… help out,” Brian agreed quickly. “I n-never speak… to anyone.”

“So why alienate your new and only friend, right?” Anna laughed. Brian attempted a laugh in response, but it came out more like a wheezy cough. She didn’t comment. She was in luck today. She doubted all ghosts were quite as amiable as this one. Or so easily bribed by a smile and a vague promise of company.

“Your… s-smile… it’s so warm,” Brian said suddenly. “More… alive… than most of them. You seem… sp-special.” Anna had to bite her lip when she recognised the tone. This was a first. She twirled a lock of her hair around a finger and made sure to keep the warm smile stuck on her face.

“You kind of sound like someone I know,” Anna said casually. “Funny. Anyway, I do have to go, but… maybe I’ll come by and see you soon? When I’m less busy. So long as you promise not to mention seeing me to anyone, yeah?”

“It’s… our s-secret,” Brian said again.

“Thanks, Brian,” Anna said. “That really means a lot to me.” She paused, giving him a lasting, wide, white-teethed grin. “But, like, who’s even gonna ask… right?”

♦ ♦ ♦

Anna had met with Forrest. She’d got Michael to write the notes. She’d gathered the seeds. Everything was ready. There could be no more putting it off. Tonight was the night.

She was waiting in the lumber mill, pacing the floor. Her mother would never notice she was gone, being far too preoccupied with the thought of seeing Richard Dunn later that night. Anna had barely had to sneak out. She was sure that if anyone asked, Sallie would assure them that her angelic daughter had spent the night in her room. The same thing she would no doubt have told people all the nights Anna had been with Michael. Or Carol. Sallie really had no idea, or perhaps she did and didn’t want to admit it. Either way, Anna felt nervous that she was already beginning to plot alibis. Everything she’d planned had popped out of its imaginary bubble and come crashing down into reality. Tonight was the night.

Anna heard the sound of a motorcycle outside and forced herself to breathe. It was time. A short while later, Quint appeared. He looked across the room expectantly. Anna knew he was going to be disappointed.

“Hey, Anna,” he said. “Becky here yet? Y’sure she isn’t pissed with me? She’s been acting real weird lately, y’know?” Anna did know. She knew that Becky had been avoiding Quint more and more after the incident with the sheriff, and she knew that Quint didn’t know the reason for his girlfriend’s sudden cold shoulder. Anna had hoped that it was a sign that Becky was coming to her senses about Quint, but she was fairly sure Becky was just feeling guilty about everything that had happened, and about the lies she was using to keep it secret.

“Oh, like, not yet, Quint,” she said nervously. When she’d called Quint earlier that day to suggest meeting up, he’d told her that he was already planning on meeting Becky that night. Anna had recovered quickly and explained that she’d spoken to Becky, who had told her about wanting to meet at the mill. When Quint had hesitated, Anna quickly added that Diane was going to be at the Ames house that night, because of some repair work at the gallery. She’d been proud of the quick-thinking and additional details. Quint had accepted the story without a question, and Anna had added, voice darkening with disapproval, that he shouldn’t call Becky again, as she was dealing with a lot at the moment. Tonight, hopefully, Becky and Quint would work out the ‘issues’ they’d been struggling with. Becky had asked Anna to help mediate. Quint, worried as he already was about Becky avoiding him, had agreed at once. They set a time, and that was it.

“Shame, I wanna get this all sorted, yeah?” Quint sighed. He began to wander around the room a little, taking it in. “I used to come here, back in high school. Hang out. You ever…? I don’t suppose.” Anna didn’t answer. She was distracted, knowing what was coming. It felt more difficult, watching Quint walk around, remembering years of memories they’d shared as friends. It just felt so real. “Came here with Carol a few times, back before,” he added. Anna jumped on it.

“Carol, yeah,” Anna said quickly. “Wow, isn’t it so weird that you dated her?”

“Yeah, man, yeah, I guess,” Quint agreed, shrugging. “Years ago though, yeah? Y’think that’s what’s been bugging Becky? That Carol and me were together back then?”

“No, probably not,” Anna said. It was half true. It had certainly been getting to Becky before she had more important things to worry about. “Do you ever like… see her?” Anna probed carefully. Quint laughed to himself.

“Carol? Naw, Anna, she’s… she’s gone off the deep end, y’know what I mean?” he said. “Something weird about her. Y’see her in that bar? Acting like she’s thirty-five, it’s weird.”

“Right, yeah, totally,” Anna agreed. “But do you still ever… wish you’d, like… stayed with her a bit longer, or anything?” Quint sighed. He crossed his arms and shook his head.

“Look, Anna, Becky told you to ask, right?” he said stiffly. “I never even looked at anyone else since we started going out. She has to believe that! Especially Carol, come on, we were never good together it was just… whatever.” He paused, then carried on, resting a hand on his chest in what Anna thought was an act of overkill. “Becky’s my one and only, all right? Do you get that, cause she really is. I’d never cheat on her. Never. I’m gonna ask her to marry me soon, for real, y’know? We’ll get a place, and I’m gonna find a better job than working for my dad, and we’re gonna make it work.”

“Isn’t that a bit naïve?” Anna asked spitefully, unable to hold her tongue. The mention of Quint’s dream life bothered her. Quint shot her a look that suggested he knew she was just being jealous.

“Y’think, Anna?” he asked levelly. “And you’re in a better place, you reckon? Still seeing that weird guy, and that’s gonna work out for you?”

“Oh, fuck off, Quint, you have no idea,” Anna snapped. This isn’t what she’d come here for, to be lectured. Especially not by him.

“Naw, yeah, maybe not,” Quint admitted. “But Anna… you know Becky and I are solid. Nothing’s gonna change that, do you get me?”

“Sure, why would it?” Anna asked. He was hinting at something, and she was apprehensive to hear what it was. Quint took a couple of steps towards her, holding up his arms in a conciliatory gesture that just annoyed her even more.

“Just mean like… you don’t have to be jealous of us, okay? Because there’s no point, yeah?” Quint said slowly. Anna narrowed her eyes.

“Why would I be?” she said stiffly.

“I mean that, you and Becky… you’re friends, y’know? And me and Becky, we’re something different to that, aren’t we? It’s two… _different_ things.” Quint was talking to her very carefully, and Anna did not appreciate a word of it. She was still not in control, even now.

“Quint, I don’t get what you’re saying at all,” Anna said, trying to play dumb, but still sounding angry. Quint smiled to himself, either trying to act like he was just being friendly, or because he felt smug, Anna couldn’t decide.

“I just mean, y’know, _you and Carol_ …” Quint said, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging to make his point without having to say it.

“We’re what?” Anna snapped.

“Anna, c’mon, you know what I mean,” Quint sighed.

“How would you even know about anything like that?” Anna snapped again. Quint paused, uncertain about whether or not to answer, before going ahead.

“Becky,” he admitted. “She said that you and Carol were kind of, well, she said you wanted to be more than friends with Carol, like you liked her and you were kind of _that way_ about girls. So I figured, maybe, you don’t like me so much, cause Carol and I went out, and then maybe you don’t like me so much again cause Becky and I go out, and maybe if you’re like that about girls, maybe things with Becky –”

“Oh my fucking god!” Anna shouted, backing away. “You’re so self-obsessed! I don’t like you cause you’re wet and boring and Becky deserves way better than you! And I’m not fucking, whatever, ‘that way’ about Becky, she’s been my best friend like all my life, and I don’t want to lose everything I have with her to some goddamn cowboy cereal mascot! Okay?! I love Becky, she’s my best friend, and it feels like she barely even remembers that sometimes, because you’re always in her head.” Anna broke to breathe, and when she continued, it was in a quieter, sadder voice. “Why would she tell you about Carol? That’s… like I told her that in confidence, and she just, like, tells you? So you can use it against me? Fuck off, Quint. Just… stop.”

“Hey, man, listen, yeah?” Quint said, trying to reach out and pat Anna’s shoulder apologetically. She wouldn’t let him. “Becky tells me everything, cause we’re in love, that’s how it is. You tell your boyfriend things, right? That’s how it is.”

“She doesn’t,” Anna said bitterly. “She doesn’t tell you everything.”

“No?” Quint sighed. “Well you tell me, yeah, Anna? What’s Becky keeping secret?”

Anna glared at him. He wasn’t expecting a real answer, that much was obvious. He was probably expecting some concern about Carol and him at most, Anna thought. He was waiting for Anna to fill him in on what Becky would later tell him when she arrived, whatever they were fighting about that he didn’t totally understand. What he wasn’t expecting, Anna thought, was the truth.

“Carol took Becky and me down to this secret room in her bar,” Anna blurted out, no longer caring. “The sheriff was there. Do you know that he and Carol are dating? Whatever, they are. They tried to get Becky and me drunk, and then the sheriff… he made Becky start kissing him and stuff, and it would have been way worse, but I pulled her out of there, and she’s been keeping it a secret, because she thinks you’re gonna get angry with her, and if you did, you’d be the worst person in the world. So there! She keeps secrets from you. Becky and I have our secrets, too.”

“Anna, what the fuck?” Quint shouted. He wasn’t angry, she realised. He’d gone pale. He was horrified. He put his hands against his head and, annoyed with it, tossed off his hat and threw it on the ground, clutching his head in both hands. “Is that why she’s been so distant? God, Anna, oh god.” His voice was panicky and Anna almost felt sorry for him. She hadn’t been sure, really, how he would react if he found out. Becky had been wrong to worry, Anna realised, stomach sinking. Quint would have been completely on her side.

“Yeah…” Anna said in a small voice. “Look, she’s… she’s gonna tell you when she gets here. That’s why we’ve got to all meet up tonight. So let’s… let’s wait for her, okay?” Quint nodded numbly. “Up here,” Anna added, gesturing towards a ladder leading to a raised platform. She’d checked it out before he arrived. There was a table there, behind which was a bag of things she’d brought with her. It didn’t matter how he’d reacted. It didn’t matter if he truly loved Becky. The plan had to go ahead. She reached for the ladder and climbed up, hearing the sound of Quint climbing after her. Anna closed her eyes tight shut for just a second, sucking in a breath. She had to harden her heart. Tonight was the night.

“She won’t be long, yeah?” Quint asked, voice shaking. Anna nodded. Becky would never arrive. She was sitting at home, expecting Quint there. Anna knew she didn’t have all the time in the world, she had to pick up the pace. Quint sat on the edge of the metal table, and she reached behind it for the bag, pulling something out. Luckily, Quint was too rattled to pay much attention.

“Here,” she said, offering him half a sandwich. “You should eat this. I’m sorry I just said it like that, like, Becky wouldn’t have liked that. Stupid Anna, always… getting in over her head.” Quint took the sandwich and bit into it, making a face.

“This is jelly, or something?” he asked.

“Uh, jam, yeah,” Anna said. She waited for him to complain, but he kept eating, out of habit. Anna sighed in relief. The sandwich, which she’d made as an afterthought, was filled with strawberry jam into which Anna had sprinkled a handful of the red seeds she’d brought from the graveyard. It had seemed the easiest way to hide them, and she remembered the tranquilising effects she’d experienced from a small dose. She thought she could probably take Quint in a fight, if she had to, but she didn’t want to risk it.

“They make ‘em at the diner,” Quint carried on, his speech, Anna thought hopefully, starting to slur slightly. “Jam sandwiches like that. Don’t they do… a weird one?”

“Yes,” Anna breathed. She remembered. The regular order of Harry Stewart. Jam, cereal, turkey. A sandwich she’d always turned her nose up to, but which she had delivered day after day in a brown bag to his assistant, long before they’d said more than ‘here you go!’ and ‘thank you’ to one another. That sandwich. It was how she and Michael had met, really, and without it… would she be here now? No, she thought. She probably wouldn’t. She’d be alone somewhere, crying, broken. No-one left to talk to. No-one to inspire her, and with whom she could have developed her plan, knowingly or not. Anna, led by the hand into Carol’s dark, secret world, with no reason to leave. After all, before, Carol and Becky had been the only people in her life. Why would she have wanted to leave them behind if there was no-one else waiting for her outside? No, Anna thought, she would have stayed with them, underground, in that room, because there would be nowhere else to go. Let it all happen, because it was what Carol wanted. And back then, what Carol wanted was the only thing she wanted, too. But it couldn’t have carried on like that forever, even Anna knew that. Carol MacLaine would not let it, because it wasn’t really what she wanted at all. She wanted the sheriff all to herself. There was no place for Anna in that underground room, in that secret world, not really. Anna knew the truth. If things had carried on down that road, Anna Graham would probably be dead. George Woodman would have got what he wanted. He would have all the power. Over her, over all of them. Becky, as well, Anna thought, couldn’t have survived. And probably Carol wouldn’t, either, not in the end. They were all doomed. It was funny, how much had turned on that one crucial moment, the moment when Anna had realised she had to leave, and dragged Becky away from there. And that had led to her catching the eye of darker forces, forces that would perhaps not have noticed her if she’d stayed just a little meeker. If she’d kept her head down, and let fate decide to throw her into George Woodman’s hands. If she hadn’t fought back.

Anna realised how much what she was preparing to do would change things. She was thinking about murder, cold-blooded murder. She could get caught. She could get killed, if someone didn’t go down easily. And even if she succeeded, what would happen next? Did she really know the answer? All she had was the word of a demon, a demon who lured people into this particularly dangerous game, who had seen her fight that night at the Galaxy of Terror and decided he liked her spirit. Why had she fought? It seemed so dangerous, all of it. Surely Anna Graham, the cry baby, the prom queen, the smiling, happy waitress who brought you lunch and always had the bounciest hair, who you never suspected of a single complicated thought, let alone _this_ … surely she didn’t fight back?

She wouldn’t have, Anna thought. Not once. Not when she didn’t have any reason to think that things were going to get better. But something had changed for her. Maybe it was the same feeling that Becky had described to her, that feeling that a happy ending was possible, if you just worked for it, and trusted that it was coming. Hope, yes. Hope. Anna had had hope, finally, after slowly watching everything fall apart, knowing that she was going to lose everything after graduation anyway, knowing that her life was ending. That she was losing Becky, losing Carol. And why fight at all if that was the case? Death, then, may not have seemed so terrible. But hope had interrupted that. And she no longer wanted to lie down and let herself die.

Anna tried to think back, tried to remember the very first time she had met him, in the diner. When she had started working there, seen that joke sandwich and snorted to herself at the idea of eating it, when she’d handed it over for the first time with a friendly thank you for coming. She hadn’t known then, about what was going to happen. If she had, then she suspected the moment would have had more meaning. The sandwich, similar to the one Quint was licking off his fingers in the present, would have felt far heavier in her hands. Symbolic, she supposed, of what was to come. Her future, her decisions up to this point, and, of course, the final thing. The sin that she was about to commit. That was the most present of all. Her first sin.

“Come on,” Anna said suddenly. It was time. Quint stared blankly at her, unable to focus, she could tell. For a second, she saw her own face, as she must have looked in the Galaxy of Terror after eating the seeds. She was doing the same thing, she realised, as Carol and George had done. And knowing that, she still wasn’t going to stop. She couldn’t.

Anna went to the bag. Quint barely watched her as she pulled on a pair of gloves, then found the roll of duct tape she’d brought with her to ensure that one of the rules, that the victims had to be silent, was followed. As she withdrew it, she realised a single red seed was still clinging to the edge of the tape. She didn’t remember packing any loose ones in the bag, and it made her shiver. It was like a reminder of what she was doing, what it meant.

“Here,” she muttered, passing the seed to Quint, who put it in his mouth without thinking. He was trusting her, trusting her because despite how things had turned out, they’d been friends for a long time. Anna shook her head. She couldn’t think like that anymore. The old Anna was gone. It all changed tonight.

Suddenly, without warning, Anna lunged forward. She knocked Quint backward, and heard him bang his head on the edge of the table. He let out a moan, but barely moved. He was too far gone, Anna thought. The seeds had done to him exactly what they’d done to her. Trying to focus on each little individual step, and not the whole of what she was doing, Anna got up and dragged Quint into position by his legs. It was hard to shift him, but she managed. She had never been very strong, though carrying plates around the diner all day had helped slightly in the past year.

“When’s Becky… when she coming?” Quint mumbled. Anna ignored him. She lifted up the duct tape and the loud snap as she stretched it out and tore off a strip echoed through the large room.

“Ssh, Quint,” she whispered. “Shut up.”

“Becky,” Quint said, and Anna slapped the tape over his mouth. He let out a muffled complaint, and Anna thought he might be just starting to come out of his haze. She had no idea what the right dose of seeds was to keep someone out of it for any length of time. She quickly stripped more duct tape off the roll, strapping it over Quint’s mouth, tearing and reapplying it when her shaking hands applied it wrongly. Eventually there was enough to smother any attempt at speech. Quint tried, though, she could see him trying to speak, or shout, although he was still too hazy to think of moving his arms or legs and trying to get up. She was thankful for that.

“I never really liked you, Quint,” Anna said. Her voice was shaking. “But it wasn’t meant to be like this, okay? I’m doing this because I have to. It has to be four. And you’re the easiest one to start with.” Her justification out of the way, Anna reached back into the bag and took out the knife. One of her mother’s from the kitchen, but considering how rarely Sallie cooked, it was unlikely to be missed. She stared for a moment at Quint lying there on the table, arms out wide, vaguely squirming in place.

“I…” she mumbled. “I dunno if I can…” Anna squeezed her eyes shut and thought. She thought about what was going to happen if she stopped here. Probably she could convince Quint this was some kind of joke, if he remembered it properly, maybe even something Becky had arranged as a test. That might be okay, although Becky was bound to be angry with her for spending the evening with Quint. She might even think that it was Anna, not Carol, who had been seeing Quint behind her back. If that happened, their friendship would be over. Anna’s fingers twitched, her face twisted up. Her eyes stayed shut.

What would happen with everything else? Carol would still be there, obviously, constantly in Anna’s peripheral vision, taunting her with the memories of what had happened. She and the sheriff would find some new target, if they didn’t cut out the middleman and come back for Becky and Anna themselves. Maybe next time it wouldn’t be so easy to get away.

Even if George gave up on his revenge threats, for some reason, Harry and Sallie would make sure that Anna and Michael could never be together. Probably Sallie would refuse to let Anna move out at all, even if she could find the money to do so. Michael would stay at home, too, endlessly waiting for some token of approval that would never come. That avenue would end, and Anna would have no-one. Becky, Carol, and Michael would have all disappeared.

Anna opened her eyes.

Quint was there on the metal bench, tangible. He wasn’t a person, Anna told herself coldly. Not anymore. He was a token. She needed four tokens, one, two, three, four. Each one paid in turn. It was her only hope. It was the only way. She had already made up her mind.

“I always hated spending time with you,” Anna said darkly, staring down at Quint. “As soon as you and Becky started going out, I mean. And maybe you’re right, maybe I was jealous of you before that cause of Carol. Maybe we never had a chance to like each other, and to actually be friends. You know what, though? I don’t really care. I’m not sorry.”

Quint let out some kind of noise, far too muffled to be audible. He was beginning to realise that something wasn’t right, starting to move, although he was still disoriented from the seeds and the bash on the head and the sheer impossibility of what was happening to do much about it.

“I’m not sorry,” Anna told herself again, making herself believe it. Even if she only believed it for the next couple of seconds, it was long enough. She raised the knife. Quint’s eyes locked onto it just as Anna brought it down, landing a wound to the left of his chest. She saw Quint screw his eyes shut, screaming, she supposed, without a sound.

“I’m not sorry!” Anna shouted, knowing there was no-one for miles to hear her. She brought the knife down again, stabbing it into the other side. And again, and again. Quint twitched and the faint, dull moan from underneath the duct tape implied he was still trying to scream. Whether for help, or just at her, she didn’t know. She looked up at his face, regretting it instantly as she saw that he was crying, tears streaming down his face.

Anna willed herself to ignore it. She thought instead of all the times Quint had got in the way of her friendship with Becky, of the future he had planned which excluded her, of his confession earlier that he was going to ask Becky to marry him, cementing the end of their friendship. Even, bitterly, of her sixteen-year-old anger when she’d found out he was dating Carol. Every bit of anger helped, as she stabbed and stabbed, as she tried to ignore the sounds and the twitching and the tears.

Finally, she stopped. She realised she had practically torn him open with her many attacks. Quint was fading, she could tell. He was almost gone. It was far too late to take any of it back, and she had no idea if she wanted to or not. It was done now. It was already done. The table was soaking in blood and, as Anna looked down at Quint’s face, he fixed her with an expression of anguish. He hadn’t seen this coming at all, she thought. Maybe, from his perspective, they had been friends all along.

“I’ll keep Becky safe,” Anna whispered. “I promise.” Quint’s expression flickered as he tried to absorb her parting words. Anna lifted the knife again, high into the air. Looking at it, she could see she had created a huge, gaping wound in Quint’s chest. Every stab had blurred together into one deep, red diamond in the centre of his chest. Anna could practically see inside of him. She shuddered. Maybe she had done it on purpose, without realising it. Torn Quint open, ready for the grand finale. Ready to go straight for the heart.

The final thrust of the knife landed on target. Quint jerked once and then, Anna knew, he was dead. As soon as it was over, she stepped back. She’d really done it. She’d killed someone. Anna put a hand over her mouth. She looked down and realised there were specks of blood on her clothes. Splatters, really. She’d worried that might happen, even before she’d known how it was going to happen. Abandoning the knife where it had stuck, turning away from what she’d done, Anna went for the bag, taking out a jumper which she pulled over her clothes. If anyone saw her on the way home, they wouldn’t see the blood. She could wash her clothes later, when her mother was asleep.

“I really did it…” Anna whispered to herself, in disbelief. She was about to leave, when she saw something sitting at the bottom of the now almost empty bag. The note. The first one that Michael had written for her. She’d brought it with the intention of leaving it for the police to find, knowing that the persona of the Raincoat Killer would distract them. It turned the crime into the work of a serial killer, she thought. And seeing as she had a personal motive for wanting Quint gone, making this look like the work of a serial killer seemed like a great idea to her. She held the note up, reading it through one final time.

“The Legend of the Raincoat Killer. On rainy nights. You eat the seeds. You kill for him. You will be washed in glory.” Ah yes, she thought. She had eaten the seeds, on a miserable night. That was what had started all this. And she had certainly decided to kill for him, that man, demon, Forrest Kaysen. Whether the last part was going to come true or not, she would have to wait and see. It had seemed like a nice touch of the dramatic when they’d written it.

Anna dropped the note on to the floor, kicking at the dust and residue from years of lumber milling until it was partially covered. She didn’t want it to look too obvious, after all. The police may as well work for it. Especially if George Woodman would be the one to uncover her new game. Now she had to hurry.

Anna rushed outside, the empty bag shoved into the pocket of her jeans, the gloves still firmly on her hands. She wasn’t planning on taking them off until she was out of there for good. She looked over at the lake and saw Quint’s bike resting beside a fence. It would be better to get rid of it, she thought. No-one needed to know that Quint had driven himself out here. As far as people knew, he was planning on meeting Becky. She was sure he would have told someone that much. Anna dragged the bike along to the edge of the lake, down the small pier that stuck out into the water. She shoved it over the edge with all the force she could muster, and watched it disappear into the water. She smiled to herself as it vanished beneath the surface.

“Kind of like in Psycho,” Anna laughed weakly to herself. She looked around. “I guess Michael and I probably won’t hang out here again,” she added. “It might be… weird.”

Now that everything was done, Anna knew she had to get back home soon. The longer she was out, the more likely it was for someone to notice she was gone. Or for them to come looking for Quint. As long as it had felt, she guessed that it had only been an hour since Quint arrived at the mill. Both his and her parents were probably still completely occupied with each other, not sparing a thought for what their children might be doing. It occurred to Anna that if she was found out, Sallie and Richard were bound to split up. For good. Although Anna had always liked Richard, she felt a momentary spiteful pleasure that she might wreck her mother’s relationship. After everything she demanded from Anna, it was annoying that Sallie constantly ignored her in favour of going out on dates.

Anna had never been more thankful for Harry Stewart’s borrowed car, as it got her home in record time. She parked it as usual away from her house, before hurrying over to her front door, trying to listen for sounds of what Richard and Sallie might be doing inside. So long as they weren’t waiting in the kitchen, she would be fine. It was hard to hear anything, so Anna had to risk it, opening the door whilst holding her breath.

She needn’t have worried. Although there were remainders of dinner on the table, the food was barely eaten, and she could now hear Richard and Sallie around the corner in the living room, laughing and talking. Anna breathed a silent sigh of relief. She took her time climbing the stairs, making as little noise as possible. The two downstairs didn’t hear her, far too absorbed in their own evening plans for that. When Anna was back in her room with the door shut, it all hit her.

She had murdered someone. She murdered Quint. Her friend, her best friend’s boyfriend. Becky would never recover. Despite what Anna told herself, Becky loved Quint more than anything, and this was going to destroy her. Anna clamped a hand over her mouth and slowly slipped down to the floor. She was a murderer. She’d crossed a line that people were never meant to cross. And Becky. Becky could never forgive her. And what about Michael! How was she meant to explain this to him? It wasn’t as if she could hide it. He would know, as soon as he heard the news, that it was her. It would be obvious, especially if the police revealed that a note left by the Raincoat Killer – in Michael’s handwriting, she remembered – had been found with the body. She might still lose everything.

As the thoughts threatened to overwhelm her, something darker rose inside Anna. A confidence she had never felt before. She’d done it, she realised. Not killed someone, not just that at least, but paid the first token. The first step to never being hurt again. She was going to carry on, she knew it. If she didn’t it would be a waste, and Quint was always going to be the hardest one. She had never wanted to choose him, especially. In a way, the hard part was over now. Everything else was going to fall into place from here. Nice and easy. She couldn’t give up now.

Anna stood up straight. She would find a way to explain this to Michael. There would be something. Some way of making him understand. She would be there for Becky, when the news came out. Hadn’t she promised Quint she would? Anna felt a lot better suddenly. All it took was letting that dark, new confidence take over for a moment, and she barely felt bad at all. She felt that everything was going to work itself out, just fine.

She shoved the bag and the gloves underneath her bed. No-one would bother looking under there, not unless they were already searching the place. She could get rid of them soon, anyway, if she had to. She peeled off her stained clothes and shoved them all into a pile of laundry by her dresser. She would wash them tomorrow, along with her diner uniform and some other things. There was nothing suspicious about that. Anna pulled on some pyjamas and looked around the room. No clues. Nothing at all to let anyone know that anything had happened. She had spent the night in her room, the whole night, doing whatever people thought she normally did.

Anna stopped for a moment in front of the mirror. She put on her wide, fake smile and really looked back into her own face. All she saw was a happy, bubbly teenage girl. The same one that everyone else saw. Not a girl who was ever sad, who ever got involved in anything dark. Not a girl who could ever kill anyone. She saw a prom queen, excited to have graduated, who was probably just thinking about what to wear tomorrow to go and meet her friends. That was all there was.

Anna went and fell back onto her bed. It was going to be hard to talk to Becky when she found out. That would be harder than lying to the police, when they inevitably asked her a few routine questions about how she knew Quint. But she was good at lying, or her smile was. It had always been there for her. People never looked past it. The sheriff, when he came to ask her questions, wouldn’t look past it. He seemed to take her at face value, as little more than an annoying, childish teenage girl. He thought she was weak. He would never think she was capable of this.

No-one would.


	55. Phone Calls

Chapter Fifty-Five. [ Phone Calls ]

Anna woke up in the night to the sound of the phone ringing. She sleepily picked it up and mumbled a hello. It was Becky, frantically asking if Anna had heard from Quint. Anna’s heart sunk. It had almost felt like a dream.

“Becky, what time is it?” Anna asked. She’d gone to bed almost as soon as she’d got back, wanting to get a good night’s sleep before the inevitable challenges of tomorrow.

“I dunno? Like one?” Becky cried shakily down the line. “Look, have you seen him?”

“I was asleep,” Anna explained. At least that part was true. It was going to be the last true thing she told Becky tonight. “No, I haven’t seen Quint. Why?”

“God!” Becky shouted. “Look, Anna, he was meant to come over earlier, and it was kind of a big deal. There were things I wanted us to talk about. He never showed up…” Anna was sure Becky was exaggerating. She would not have told Quint anything new, Anna was certain of it. Still, her friend’s reaction tugged at her, and Anna had to expend a great effort to keep her voice casual.

“Is he home? Maybe he forgot?” Anna suggested.

“No, I called!” Becky sobbed. “His dad hasn’t even seen him tonight, he’s out somewhere. I’m so worried. And Anna… if he’s not with me, then he’s… he’s with Carol, right? He must be with her. She’s doing this to hurt me, after… after her fucked up game with the sheriff didn’t work out, now she’s gone after my boyfriend! She’s gonna take him away from me just to spite me!”

“Becky, you’re being kind of paranoid…” Anna mumbled.

“No, I know it!” Becky cried. “And you’re always saying I can’t be certain he doesn’t still have feelings for her. Maybe he does! I should never have gone cold on him!” Anna felt Becky was exaggerating again. She had mentioned the idea that Quint might still have feelings for Carol once or twice, but she was sure it hadn’t been more often than that. Apparently, the idea had affected Becky more than she had realised.

“Becky… Quint totally loves you,” Anna said sadly, remembering the things he’d said that night. She could hardly tell Becky that her name had been his last word.

“Yeah… I hope so, Anna,” Becky said. “Look, thanks for listening. Maybe he just… maybe something else.” She said a shaky goodbye and hung up the phone. Anna put down the receiver and felt a weight in her stomach. Becky’s reaction to this would be nothing compared to what tomorrow would bring.

Anna drifted off to sleep again, and did not wake up until her mother was shaking her gently, trying to get her out of bed, hours later. Anna blinked herself awake. It was bright outside. She’d slept through until morning.

“Anna?” Sallie said carefully. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah, mom…” Anna said sleepily. “What is it? I don’t have work.”

“It’s not about work, honey,” Sallie said. “I have some bad news.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. For a second, Anna wondered what it might be, until it hit her. Yet again, it had begun to feel like just a dream. Anna waited for her mother to explain. “It’s about your friend, Quint,” Sallie told her.

“Yeah?” Anna said, trying her best to sound worried.

“He… he’s died,” Sallie explained gently. Anna waited for a moment before answering.

“What?” she said. “No way… he can’t be. Becky called me about him last night, there’s no way.”

“Did she?” Sallie asked, frowning. “I can’t change what’s happened, Anna. I’m sure Becky’s already heard. Richard just called to tell me.”

“He didn’t stay over?” Anna asked. That, she had assumed, would be a given. She hadn’t even thought about how it might affect him hearing the news. It was probably a good thing the police hadn’t tracked him over to her house in the middle of the night. Anna felt she might have nervously blurted out the whole story if the entire police department had woken her up.

“He went home last night. Becky called him about Quint not showing up to see her, and he called the police,” Sallie told her. “They found Quint this morning. He is dead, Anna, I’m very sorry.”

“How… how did he die?” Anna asked in a small voice. Sallie twitched, which told Anna all she needed to know. Richard would know what had happened, then. Already. She imagined that the sheriff hadn’t been gentle in describing the details.

“He was murdered,” was all that Sallie said, before getting up from the bed and walking towards the door. “I don’t want you going out today.” She left the room and Anna lay back into the pillow, sighing. The truth was out. Becky would be dealing with it alone. Anna debated whether or not to call her, eventually picking up the phone. It would feel wrong not to, after what she’d done.

“Hello?” Becky said tearfully on the other end, when she eventually picked up. Anna clutched the phone close to her ear.

“Becky?” she said softly. “Becky, I heard. I’m so sorry.” And she was sorry. For Becky.

“I… okay, Anna,” Becky sniffed. “Look, I don’t want to talk right now, no offence. Call me later.”

“Wait, you can’t, like, be all alone. Not after… that,” Anna tried to say. She knew her mother wouldn’t want her going over to Becky’s house, but she could at least comfort her friend on the phone. Becky sighed.

“My sister is here,” Becky said dismissively. “I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up. Anna put the phone down. She would not have expected Diane to rush over to comfort Becky, but she supposed she was glad. Becky could use someone as strong as her sister today.

Anna spent the rest of the day in her room, thinking things over. It got both more and less real as time passed, she felt. The gritty, gory reality of what she had done seemed to slowly disappear, wilting like a picked flower, but the fact that Quint was dead seemed realer by the moment. The phone rang several times throughout the day, at irregular intervals, and Anna ignored it. She could hear Sallie go to answer it before shouting when there was no voice on the other end. At one point, when she came to ask if Anna wanted anything for dinner, she mentioned that it was in poor taste for someone to be prank calling them today. Anna had agreed, but she knew the truth. It was Michael calling, and hanging up when Sallie answered. She was sure of it.

For some reason, she wanted to preserve his ignorance for as long as she could. Even though, as she well knew, he would have already realised what she had done, and why. Until she actually spoke to him, it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t completely real. There was still a chance, she had to admit, that he would not actually accept her explanations. And she wasn’t yet prepared for that.

Becky finally called her back that evening. Sallie answered, and as soon as Anna knew it was Becky on the phone, she picked up at once. The two had an emotional conversation, and Anna found herself crying when Becky cried, even if she didn’t deserve to. Becky still seemed worried that Quint had met up with Carol, and Anna didn’t question it. If it was going to give Becky someone to blame, or soften the blow at all, she would let her have it. Surely Quint would not be offended, if he knew a little doubt was helping his girlfriend grieve.

When Anna hung up the phone, she decided to go straight to bed. It was too early, but she was exhausted despite doing nothing all day. It seemed likely the police would come around tomorrow, as they had not bothered her yet. Anna was not looking forward to seeing the sheriff, in any context, but especially this one. Even if it might feel good to know something he didn’t. She left her room once in the night to wash her clothes, erasing the traces of Quint’s blood that she’d brought back with her for good. Sallie didn’t wake her the next morning, and when Anna came downstairs to get some breakfast, she realised it was because her mother was glued to the phone, talking to Richard. Anna could hardly blame her. She hurried back to her room with some food to wait out the day, wondering when she would be able to go and see Becky.

Anna called her again, and Becky cried down the phone. She was alone in the house now, and it seemed as if Quint’s death was really hitting her. Becky spent hours talking through all the things she would never again be able to do with Quint, all the places in her room he had ever sat, all the things they’d ever talked about and plans they could now never keep. Anna listened patiently throughout all of it, as she had never been willing to do when Quint was alive. She owed Becky, she knew that. It was difficult to put down the phone, even though it was Becky who eventually wanted to end the conversation. Anna needed the distraction just as much as Becky needed the comfort, she realised.

Around eight that evening, Sallie knocked on Anna’s door and stuck her head around without waiting for a reply. Anna looked up from her desk, where she had been scribbling in her diary about Quint’s death and Becky’s reaction, leaving out the most salient detail of who had killed him.

“There was another call for you,” she said. Anna frowned.

“Becky, right?” she asked uncertainly.

“No, it was Nick at the diner,” Sallie told her. That really surprised Anna. She hadn’t missed any work, and Nick had never seemed the type to offer condolences. At least not to her. They barely knew each other outside of the diner.

“What?” Anna asked, unable to keep her voice from rising in shock.

“He said to tell you he was very sorry to ask, but could you go over there quickly. There’s an emergency and they need a hand.” Sallie did not look pleased. “Be careful though, Anna, and you run over there and back, do you understand? No games. And don’t think you can go anywhere else. It’s dangerous.”

“All right, sure mom, I’ll be careful,” Anna promised. It was not as if she was actually in any danger, after all. She was quite certain the killer wasn’t going to come after her. Sallie nodded at her and left the room, probably going back to talk to Richard for another stretch of time. Anna couldn’t help but feel that Sallie might be enjoying the fact that he was relying on her in the wake of his son’s death a little too much. It made her feel uneasy. It was not right.

“Oh yeah, Anna,” Sallie called from the hallway. “There’s going to be a town meeting tomorrow. The police want to talk to everyone. We’re going, all right? Wear something pretty, I don’t want them thinking bad things about us, understand?” Anna suppressed a laugh. She just couldn’t help it.

♦ ♦ ♦

Anna rushed over to the diner, keeping her promise to run. She had put on her uniform in a hurry in case she needed it. She still couldn’t imagine what Nick wanted with her at this time of night. In fact, it was odd that he had called at all. She would have expected Olivia to handle it, if there was a problem. When she reached the diner, she saw that the lights were off, and the place was closed up. Now she was really confused, and began to feel dread rising in her chest. This felt like a trap.

“Anna.” When she heard her name, Anna cried out, and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. The last thing she needed was for someone to think she was being murdered and come to help. Her heart rate finally slowed when she saw who it was.

“I should have guessed. I knew Nick wouldn’t call me at home,” Anna muttered. Standing in the shadow of the diner, up against the wall, was Michael. She went over to him, realising that the time for delays was over whether she liked it or not. His face was set in a firm frown and Anna began to feel guilty at once.

“I tried calling you. Frequently,” Michael said coldly. Anna already knew that.

“Yeah, I was… busy. With Becky,” she tried to explain, weakly. Michael did not buy it.

“Anna,” he said darkly. “I know that you did this.” Anna squirmed, hopping from foot to foot. She wished he wouldn’t talk to her like that, that he would have realised why she had had to do it.

“Michael…” she sighed. “Look, I won’t play around, okay? Yeah. You know it. I know it. I did… do it. I…” She made sure there was no chance that anyone was listening in, then whispered “I killed Quint. I killed him.” Michael twitched despite himself. Even though he’d forced this confrontation, he still hadn’t been ready to hear the words out loud.

“Anna, how could you?” he asked in a hiss. “You cannot truly understand what you’ve done. He was a human being, and you had no right. No right.”

“I did it because…” Anna started half-heartedly, but Michael cut her off by raising his hand.

“Please, don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “That sick idea… that sick, impossible idea. That is what possessed you to do this. Anna, it was… I can’t even call this wrong, it’s beyond that. How could you? How could you?!”

“Because I had to,” Anna said. Michael stared at her, wide-eyed, as if she had slapped him.

“There is no… no way… you had to?” he repeated numbly.

“I had to,” Anna repeated, more forcefully this time. “This is the only way, Michael. That idea, the deal I made, that’s the only way for me. It’ll give me what I need. Like, I just don’t know what else to do. I need this. We both need this.”

“I’m not part of this,” Michael said, turning sharply away from her. “I never, never, agreed to be part of this.” Anna froze, turning cold from her skin deep down into her blood.

“Then… why didn’t you call the sheriff and rat me out?” Anna asked, voice snapping tightly in the silent air of the night. Michael stood still for a moment, arms crossed in front of him, before finally turning back around to look at her.

“I loved you,” he said simply.

“But… Michael, I love you too!” Anna said at once. She moved forward and grabbed his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if he was going to disappear from sight any moment. “I know I said that before, but… it’s more, now. I mean it more. Like I’ve never loved anyone. You’re…” She hesitated, breathing in. “You’re the reason I did this.” Michael’s eyes widened in horror and he tried to pull away, but she clung on.

“I can’t be, I told you not to even think about it!” he protested, breathing heavily.

“Michael…” Anna tried, but he succeeded in shoving her off him, doubling forward and failing to catch his breath. He began to shake, clutching at the wall for support, and Anna stood by uncomfortably as the panic attack slowly passed. When it was over, he righted himself, wiping at his mouth, and looking frantically back at her. He shook his head.

“I begged you not to get obsessed…” he breathed. “This can’t be my fault!”

“It’s not your _fault_!” Anna cried out. “This is a good thing! It’s… awful, it was awful, but I had to. I had to. Michael, Michael I’m so… I’m so sick of losing!” Her voice had risen and the last word came out so desperately that Michael actually looked ready to listen. Anna sighed, trying to keep from shaking. “Look,” she began. “I don’t want to argue with you and pretend like this was… a nice thing to do. It was… oh my god, it was horrible, all of it. I know he didn’t… he didn’t really deserve it. And I feel so bad for Becky, really. But it’s not about that.”

“Anna, please tell me, what is it about?” Michael pleaded.

“When I was down in that room,” Anna said carefully, thinking it through as she went, not wanting to lie. Not now, not to him. “It would have been… so easy, to just give up. And die there. Michael, I know that was what would have happened. I would have died down there if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t decided not to. The sheriff, he… it’s just what would have happened, I know it.”

“But you didn’t, and I am so glad of that,” Michael interjected. “But it didn’t have to come to this!”

“Don’t you get it though, Michael?” Anna sighed. “I don’t want to be weak anymore. I want to be able to stand up to the people who keep hurting me, to fight back! I want to protect myself from that, and protect the people I care about. Don’t you think I deserve that?”

“Yes, Anna, but you didn’t have to –”

“I did!” she insisted. “What do you think’s gonna happen when the sheriff decides it’s too risky for me to know about his little hobby, huh? And when he gets bored of Carol and goes after Becky again? He wants to kill me, Michael, he said that when we were down there.” Anna remembered it clearly, the way George had shouted after them as she ran away. That he would cut their heads off. She didn’t doubt it. “I can’t fight him! I can’t do anything. No, that’s wrong. I couldn’t do anything. Now I can. That night, I was chosen. I was chosen to do this.”

“By a demon,” Michael reminded her, voice shaking as he spoke. “He isn’t human. No human would suggest this. That man is a demon!”

“Yeah, he is,” Anna agreed. She could feel that same dark confidence she’d felt after killing Quint rise again, and she remembered what Forrest Kaysen had told her. ‘I have a suspicion you’ll start feeling pretty lucky if you make a start on your plan.’ She hadn’t thought it would be literal.

“Then, why…” Michael began, second-guessing himself before he could finish the sentence.

“Michael, I want to be happy,” Anna said softly. “I want us to be happy together. We couldn’t be happy before. This is the only way. You have to trust me. The only way.”

“The only way…?” Michael repeated numbly, and Anna nodded.

“Yes,” she said. She leant over to kiss him and he didn’t resist. “I love you… I really love you,” she whispered, and he reached out for her hands, clutching tightly, and kissing her back. Anna broke away from him occasionally to mutter something else. “I had to do this.” “We can be happy now.” “It’s going to be all right.” And, finally, “I just need you to trust me.”

“Anna,” he said, after they had finally pulled apart. “You’re going to… you’re going to kill someone else, aren’t you? That’s how the rules went, I remember. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Anna said quietly, seeing no reason to hide it. Not now she had begun to convince him at last.

“Who?” he asked.

“You know who,” she whispered. “After what she did, it had to be her.”

“Carol MacLaine,” Michael breathed. “I can’t… I don’t…” he hesitated, struggling.

“You want to agree with me,” Anna said suddenly. “You know she deserves it.”

“I don’t know that anyone deserves that,” Michael said softly.

“She knew how I felt about her, and she tried to give me away to her boyfriend like I was a paper doll, Michael. She wanted me to get all torn up. She wanted to watch.” Anna shuddered. “It would have made her feel good to watch him hurt me, because it’d prove to her that she was the only one he wanted. She didn’t care about me at all.”

“I know that, and I… I don’t want to defend her at all, after what she did,” Michael admitted. “But death is final. Are you sure it wouldn’t feel better if she realised what she had done, and tried to apologise? In time, you know, she might realise… what he’s done to her.”

“Just cause the sheriff hurt her, it doesn’t give her a right to hurt me!” Anna snarled bitterly. “If the sheriff had some sob story, would that make it okay for him to try and fuck me in that basement? Would it?” Michael shook his head frantically.

“No, no. Not at all,” he said quietly.

“It’s no excuse. It doesn’t matter why, it only matters what,” Anna said firmly. “I can’t… forgive people anymore, okay? I can’t.”

“Are they going to forgive _you_?” Michael asked. Anna paused. He turned to stare at her, and his green eyes had gone as cold as glass. “Is your excuse better than theirs?” Michael asked again. “Are you… are we… such better people that we can be excused for this, when they can’t?”

“Yes,” Anna said, after a long wait. “Yes, we have to think that. We have to think that we deserve to be happy. Because we do.” Michael sighed, shutting his eyes. Anna watched him nervously, until he finally spoke.

“There’s an FBI Agent,” Michael said slowly. “He arrived in town today. He tried to talk to me at the hospital earlier. He was asking questions about Quint Dunn’s death.”

“Does he know?” Anna gasped. “Michael, does he know anything?!” He kept her waiting in suspense for a moment deliberately, Anna thought.

“No,” Michael assured her. “Not at this stage. He only came over to talk to us because of Mr. Stewart. I believe he thought that, if anything, he was the suspicious one. Not me.”

“Funny,” Anna said numbly. Michael had reminded her that everything could still fall down around her. She wasn’t done yet. If the FBI had sent someone already, then she would have to step up her game. She couldn’t just count on the local police to brush everything under the rug.

“Yes, I suppose it is a little funny,” Michael said humourlessly. “Though at the time I was not yet certain that I was… involved with the murderess.”

“No,” Anna agreed. She remembered what her mother had said earlier. “Are you going to the town meeting tomorrow?” she asked.

“Of course,” Michael said. “Mr. Stewart wouldn’t miss it.”

“If that FBI Agent talks to you…” Anna said carefully. “Will you lie? Will you be able to?” This was the moment of truth, she thought. Michael realised it too. Their conversation so far had been back and forth. This was the time for him to decide, one way or another. If he was going to join her, or give her up. Anna couldn’t breathe while she waited for him to answer.

“I… will not tell them what you did,” Michael said at last. “I can do it.” Anna grabbed hold of him, burying her face in his neck and wrapping her arms tightly around his back. She stayed that way for a long time. She had not been completely certain he would agree until he said it.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I promise, it’s going to work out for us. It has to.”

“It does now,” Michael agreed softly, stroking her hair. “I can’t look back. I’m with you. I… I love you.” Anna felt him shake and realised he was crying. She felt tears seep into her hair, and didn’t move. She would let him keep crying as long as he needed to.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I’m doing this for us.”

“It’s their fault,” Michael said, muffled by tears and a face of her hair. “I couldn’t let them hurt you now. I couldn’t watch that happen. It’s their fault.”

“It’s their fault,” Anna repeated. She thought of Carol, of where she was now. No doubt she was spending the evening with George Woodman, distracting the sheriff from the crime she was unlikely to care about at all. But not for long, Anna thought. Carol was on borrowed time.


	56. Alibi

Chapter Fifty-Six. [ Alibi ]

When Anna first met Francis York Morgan, or York, as he asked to be called, it was after the town meeting, having been mistaken for Becky. Her first thought was that she had flown under the radar so completely that she had lost her own identity. In terms of the FBI’s investigation, she might be a side character at best. She was still surprised that Quint’s murder, brutal as it had been, had warranted the arrival of the FBI at all. Her stunt with the Raincoat Killer connection had clearly not gone unnoticed.

Although Anna was comfortable in the fact that Agent York had taken about as much interest in her as he took in his own first name, Michael did not feel so lucky. He told Anna that the FBI agent had asked him if he knew Quint, and even encouraged him to come to the sheriff’s department and make a statement. As frantic as Michael had been conveying the news, Anna suspected Agent York’s reaction had more to do with Harry than him. Harry Stewart was the kind of suspicion catnip that the FBI would find it impossible to ignore. Between the gasmask he always wore, his refusal to speak for himself, and his constant urge to play mind games, he was far more likely than his assistant to incite curiosity. Anna wondered if the sheriff had had similar feelings about Harry at one point in time, before he grew tired of dealing with him. If he had followed that instinct far enough, and got Harry to confess the truth, would Michael be in Greenvale today? Or would George and Harry have reached some other kind of ending?

Anna next saw Agent York at the diner, and was horrified to hear he had remembered her name. Even though he seemed nothing but friendly, she couldn’t calm down while he was there. She hoped her distress was not obvious. If he started to suspect her, it would all be over. She had no plan b in place to protect herself at all. It was only made worse when Michael and Harry arrived to fetch their lunch, and he was still there. Michael and Anna exchanged a very brief, frantic glance, and then carried out the rest of their routine robotically, as if they had never met before in their lives. And yet, even though Agent York wanted to talk to her afterwards, it was only about what kind of sandwich Harry had ordered. Anna breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was still Harry that captured attention, not her and Michael. Yet.

Becky had been next on Agent York’s list after the town meeting, and she later told Anna, angrily, how he had harassed her at home. Anna did not take Becky’s word as truth. It sounded as if her grieving friend had practically slammed the door in the police’s face, but she said nothing. It was worth bearing in mind, nothing more.

All the while, Anna knew she was building up to the day she paid her next token. Carol. She told herself she was waiting for the right opportunity, but it would be equally true for her to admit she was scared. The way she had acted the night Quint died, the way she had lost control when she killed him, acting in a frenzy, and so angry, frightened her. She knew it would happen again, and she wasn’t quite ready for it to. As long as she felt that was true, she was still herself. Still good. What frightened her more than the memories of Quint’s murder was the occasional sudden desperation to get to Carol. To kill again. It was much harder to explain that away and still feel like she was a good person.

Agent York did not disappear off her radar completely. He was a permanent presence in town now, working closely with the police and asking far too many questions. He came to her house and asked about Carol and Quint, a topic Anna had no problem discussing. She helpfully mentioned their past relationship, and Becky’s belief that Quint had kept seeing Carol while they were together. After all, Anna told herself, good girls did not lie to the police. She almost got carried away recounting memories of a time when she and Carol had been friends, and happy, but snapped herself back to reality without saying too much. The memories stayed around longer than the police did.

It had almost been a week since Quint’s death, when Sallie told Anna she was meeting Richard at his bar. Anna immediately asked if she could go over to Becky’s house, something she had not been able to do since the murder. It was beginning to weigh on her that her only contact with the outside world was over the phone or at work. Sallie had not been impressed by the idea. She said she didn’t want Anna hiding out with Becky in an empty house. Not with a killer on the loose. Anna had to bite her tongue. She couldn’t really explain why she did not see that as a problem. Instead, Sallie told Anna to go and spend the night somewhere public, where she would be safe. Seeing as her mother was going to the Swery 65, and the lack of an invitation implied Anna was not meant to go with her, it really only left one option. Anna would have to go back to the Galaxy of Terror at last.

The idea made her sick. As if walking into that bar meant she would once again be dragged down underground, never to be released. Trapped and buried in the basement as surely as in her grave. There was no way to explain her feelings to her mother without explaining what had happened, which was impossible, so Anna agreed to the idea. She dressed herself in some older clothes that were too loose and baggy in the hopes that she would blend into the background. Going to the Galaxy of Terror was bad enough. Having to talk to Carol would be unbearable.

When she arrived, after building herself up and taking a few forced breaths outside, Anna went in. She took a seat in the corner booth far from the stage, and shoved her long hair into the back of her sweater in the hope that she would not look like herself tonight. Carol was there, of course, but she did not seem to notice Anna. She was too busy singing her siren song. Even now, the music seemed to overwhelm Anna. The sound of Carol’s voice penetrated her chest and she had to repeat, over and over inside her head, that it was too late. Carol’s song would be ending soon.

Mercifully, Anna was left alone for much of the evening. Carol, if she saw that Anna was there, ignored her entirely. Maybe she felt guilty after all, Anna thought, reminded of what Michael had told her. The possibility that Carol could still apologise. She dismissed the thought. It was too late for that. Carol’s brother Thomas was behind the bar, and he shot Anna a nervous glance or two. He must know what had happened in the basement that night. It had always seemed certain that Carol would tell him, and this confirmed it. Anna would have desperately liked to hear just how she had told the story. If Carol had been honest. Her only other interruption was a boy who insisted on sitting next to her for a while, because they had been in the same class. He tried to ask her too many questions about what she was doing after graduation and Anna was sure he would eventually attract Carol’s attention, so she told him to get lost with none of her usual charm. He had had some impolite things to say in response, but it didn’t bother her. She was just glad when he left her alone.

Eventually, to Anna’s surprise, Agent York made an appearance. She would not have expected to see him in a bar at night. She pictured him in the clean, well-lit interior of the sheriff’s department, or the diner at lunchtime. This felt too much like he was invading the underworld, about to turn over the stone under which she hid. Forcing her to skitter quickly away like a bug in the light, afraid of being squashed. She watched with interest as he managed to get into a loud argument with Carol, who seemed to openly dislike him so much, Anna almost wondered if Carol was trying to get herself arrested. Although she probably imagined she was immune from such punishment. As the argument reached its height, Anna overheard Becky’s name. She realised that Carol and Agent York were arguing about whether or not Becky had told him something about Carol’s private life. Anna’s heart hammered. She watched as Carol stormed off, first to her dressing room, and then out of the bar. It did not take a genius to figure out who Carol was going to speak to. In that moment, Anna realised that the time had come. She was never going to get such a clear opportunity. She just had to set things up right. This wasn’t child’s play anymore.

Anna pulled her hair back into place and approached Agent York, who seemed almost as surprised to see her as she had him. Though he recovered from the shock much faster. She was nervous, and she was sure that showed, but she knew what she had to do now. Somewhere, deep inside, that dark confidence was there for her, happy to help her form the words. She told Agent York that they had to talk about Carol, providing just enough information that he was certain to be curious, without revealing anything. She would have to think about exactly what to tell him later. Half the truth, perhaps. It didn’t matter yet. When he pressed her for more, Anna told him that she wanted their discussion to happen at the sheriff’s department, tomorrow. He recognised something in her, desperation of some kind, and agreed. As Anna went back to her seat, she thought it through. She was pleased with herself. It would be perfect. The FBI agent in charge of catching the killer was about to give her a perfect alibi.

As soon as York left, Anna got up from her seat. She went to the front door of the bar and listened until she heard his car drive off, then went outside. She went straight to the phone outside the Galaxy of Terror and picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” Michael asked from the other end of the line. Anna breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice. She had been unable to see him properly since that night outside the diner. It had seemed too dangerous, on the off chance someone caught them together, now that they were hiding more than just a relationship.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Oh, Anna,” Michael sighed. “I was waiting to hear from you. The police came to the house today. They asked questions about the Raincoat Killer. Mr. Stewart cut them off, he told me to get rid of them. It was… I was frightened. I cannot wait for this to end.”

“Oh, shit,” Anna said. She would normally be more sympathetic, but she had to hurry things along. “Look, I need you. Meet me at my house. As soon as possible, seriously.”

“It’s tonight, isn’t it?” Michael muttered. Anna didn’t want to answer. She noticed the shift in tone.

“Bring some gloves,” Anna said instead. “And a knife.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Anna waited outside her house in the dark, and was glad when Michael arrived promptly. They switched cars at Brownie Street and Michael only began to talk when Anna was behind the wheel of her borrowed car, speeding down the road.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked. Starting with the easier questions.

“Uh, yeah. I do,” Anna said. “It’s all planned.”

“The FBI agent is suspicious of me,” Michael insisted.

“No, he’s suspicious of your creepy dad,” Anna countered. “Who wouldn’t be? You’re just Harry’s voice box.” Michael frowned to himself.

“I mean to say,” Michael continued. “How do you plan to avoid getting caught? I don’t understand why you aren’t more fraught.”

“Don’t you rhyme at me,” Anna said. “Listen, like, I have it worked out. I have a plan. Just trust me!”

“All right,” Michael muttered. A moment later he changed tack. “Are you really going to do this?” Anna hesitated this time. It was much harder to answer comfortably.

“I managed with Quint…” she said softly.

“I had thought that the reality of that might give you pause,” Michael said bitterly. Anna did not answer. After a minute, he carried on. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Nothing,” Anna said quickly. “Just be there and… you don’t have to like do any of it, don’t worry.”

“And don’t _you_ worry,” Michael said coolly. “I won’t.”

They were soon approaching Becky’s house, and Anna parked the car up the hill, outside the gates. As soon as she got out, she could hear noise. She exchanged a look with Michael, and they both hurried down the road towards the house. Anna knew what to expect. Sure enough, when they got close, they saw Carol banging on Becky’s front door, shouting. The door was closed, but Becky was shouting back through it, the two of them fighting with no regard for the fact that it was late at night. At least there were no neighbours to disturb. Carol had changed out of the red dress she performed in, Anna noticed. It was a shame. It would have been more symbolic.

For a second, speaking to Carol seemed completely overwhelming. Anna felt images of that night in the pit under the Galaxy of Terror flashing in the back of her mind. She heard Carol’s laugh, heard Carol demanding that she be a fucking adult. Tonight. Tonight, she would be. It was foolish to let the idea of talking to Carol seem like the hardest thing she was going to do tonight.

“Carol!” Anna shouted, trying to be heard over the hammering on the door and the raised voices. Carol turned around, lip curled angrily.

“Anna?” she snarled. “What the fuck are you doing here? Did Becky call you? Did she need someone to back her up?”

“Is that Anna?” Becky called out in surprise from behind the door. A second later it opened and Anna caught sight of Becky. She looked terrible. Weak, tired, worn down. Anna’s heart sank.

“I saw you leave the bar,” Anna said, trying to sound strong. “I knew you were gonna come here and hassle Becky.”

“She told the fucking big city cop about George!” Carol snapped in response.

“W-what about George?” Anna asked. If what had happened was out already, she might be in trouble.

“Oh, god, Anna!” Carol sighed harshly. “Not your little secret. It’s not all about you. She told him that George and I are together. Okay? So you see why maybe I’m a little pissed off?” Anna was stunned. Carol barely acted like anything had happened between them. She referred to that whole awful night as a ‘little secret’. Anna could not help but clench her fists. It made her so much angrier to know Carol wanted to sweep straight past it all.

“That’s all you care about?” Anna shouted. “That’s all you fucking care about?!”

“I didn’t tell him shit!” Becky insisted. “Why would I? Someone else told!”

“Who else knows?” Carol snarled. “It was obviously you!”

“Probably your stupid brother!” Becky shouted back. “He knows, and he’s skittish. I bet it was him!”

“Don’t you fucking drag Thomas into this!” Carol shouted. “Thomas would never do anything to hurt me, do you understand? You fucking… you want to start with me, Becky?” Becky ducked back behind the door as Carol threatened to advance on her and Anna was stuck for what to do. It was Michael who reached out and put a hand firmly on Carol’s shoulder, pulling her away from the door.

“Please,” he said. “Let’s all calm down.” Carol spun around to face him and shoved his hand away.

“All right, I’m ready to ask,” she said sharply. “But what the hell is Harry Stewart’s pocket thesaurus doing here exactly?” Michael stopped and Anna looked between him and Carol, before sighing.

“He… I brought him,” she explained. Carol looked at her with narrow eyes before breaking into a smirk. It took Anna a great deal of effort not to lash out then and there.

“Aw, Anna, baby girl,” Carol purred. “Good for you. I was starting to think you had a moral objection to getting laid. Nice to see you got over it.”

“Leave her alone –” Michael started to say, but Anna pushed in front of him before he could get more than a few words out.

“Because I didn’t want to be part of your creepy, fucked up, secret game!” Anna screamed, shaking. Carol smirked back at her, happy to have agitated her so much, but Anna did not care. “How can you even talk to me like it was nothing? How can you stand there and pretend no-one got hurt?! How can you _dare_ to look at me when you tried to do what you did?”

“Relax, Anna,” Carol said softly. “Sometimes people get hurt. But we get over it.”

“You’re worthless,” Anna spat, and shoved past Carol, forcing her way through the front door into Becky’s house. Michael followed her. Becky stood shell-shocked beside them, trying to think of what to say.

“Well that was… whatever,” Becky mumbled. “Anna, I dunno if I’ve ever seen you get that angry.”

“She’s lucky I’m not angrier,” Anna hissed to herself. Although she doubted Carol’s luck would last for much longer.

“I didn’t even do it,” Becky said. “I didn’t say anything to the FBI agent. My sister told me to be careful if the cops showed up.”

“Yeah,” Anna said, jumping on this point. “You have to be really careful! You know what they’re like. I mean, the sheriff is one of them! In fact…” she said slowly. “You really can’t trust them with anything. I wouldn’t even mention about what just happened, if they asked.”

“What, fighting with Carol?” Becky asked, uncertainly.

“Well, I mean… you shouldn’t say that Michael and I were here,” Anna said carefully. “You don’t want Carol to seem like the victim, right? And if there were three of us and one of her, it totally looks like we were ganging up on her in the fight. Especially cause she told the FBI agent that you were the one who blabbed about her and the sheriff. You know how manipulative she is. She’ll spin it. It’ll make you look really bad.”

“Wow, yeah,” Becky agreed slowly, as what Anna was saying dawned on her. “I guess you’re right. Especially if she was lying about me to the FBI. She’s setting me up to look bad, even after everything… everything… that happened.” Becky wiped at her face and Anna realised that Quint was back at the forefront of her mind.

“Plus,” Anna went on. “Michael and I would get in so much trouble for being out at this time of night! My mom made me promise not to be here, and she’ll kill me.”

“Oh, definitely… sure,” Becky agreed, but she was obviously distracted by thoughts of Quint. And Anna suddenly had an idea.

“Becky, who do you think killed Quint?” she asked. Becky looked up at her, startled, and shook her head numbly. Michael stared levelly at Anna. “Do you think… I mean… it might have been Carol.”

“You think so?” Becky gasped. Anna nodded. Michael continued to stare at her, unsure of what exactly she was doing.

“I do, I mean, who else?” Anna asked, trying to widen her eyes appropriately. Becky began to nod as if it all made sense to her. That was reassuring. It was much better than Becky actually thinking the question through.

“Yeah… yeah. It was. It was Carol. She did it,” Becky agreed slowly. Anna felt again that her luck had improved greatly since Quint’s death. She had convinced Becky with basically no effort.

“She might have even come here to hurt you,” Anna said gently. “Like… to kill you too. And maybe me, if she has a chance.”

“Do you think the sheriff told her to do it?” Becky asked nervously. “Is this… did they kill Quint so he couldn’t protect me, and now they’re gonna kill us because of what happened?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Anna agreed. She had to admit, it was a neat theory. But seeing as she and Becky were not about to be murdered, it was unlikely to hold up. “So we have to be super careful. We can’t let her manipulate us, and we can’t let her get us, okay?”

“I’ll be careful, Anna. I promise,” Becky said, reaching out for Anna’s hand and squeezing it. Anna smiled warmly. But the moment was interrupted when there came another round of hammering on the front door. Becky leapt back, now terrified of what Carol might be there to do.

“Becky!” Carol shouted through the door. “I’m not done! I’m not going yet, not until you admit you blabbed, so come out now and stop being a little shit!”

“Oh my god…” Becky hiccupped fearfully. She retreated from the door, and Anna put up a hand to reassure her.

“I’ll handle it, okay?” she promised. “Just… stay in your room and lock the door.” Becky did just that, immediately, and Michael looked over at Anna. She held his gaze for a moment, then turned away and opened the front door.

“Anna,” Carol sighed in agitation. “Again. You know I only want to talk to Becky. Can you move?”

“Let’s go and talk,” Anna said, grabbing hold of Carol’s arm and yanking her away from the door, down the front steps. Carol twisted her arm, but Anna held on, dragging her away from the house.

“What the fuck?” Carol snapped. “Anna, don’t think you can touch me. I don’t let people touch me unless I want them to. Do you understand that?”

“You didn’t think that I might feel the same way, though?” Anna hissed. “Do you even care what you did? Do you even care at all?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, shut up,” Carol said, her voice flatter than before.

“I’m not a toy!” Anna snarled. “When you made me eat those seeds, I…”

“Oh, I did not make you!” Carol sighed, doing her best to come off as dramatic. “You did it wrong. They’re normally good. I eat them all the time. I ate some earlier!”

“You did?” Anna asked suddenly, registering the news.

“Yeah!” Carol said. “And nothing bad happened to me! Look at that!”

“It’s not a game… _I’m_ not a game… I’m not a…” Anna stammered. “I’m not a pawn for you to throw away!”

“Yeah, you are,” Carol insisted, pressing her face in close to Anna’s. “Cause I’m the queen, and you’re nothing. You never meant anything to me.”

“Say that again,” Anna whispered. Carol hesitated for a moment, doubt flashing in her eyes for just a second, before she smirked nastily back.

“You never meant anything to me,” she repeated. Anna lunged for her. She grabbed Carol by the throat and the two of them toppled forward onto the ground, hitting hard. Anna tightened her fingers around Carol’s neck, squeezing as hard as she could, fingernails digging into the skin.

“I meant something!” Anna cried out. “I meant something!” Carol stared back at her and, unable to speak, snapped her head from side to side, denying it. Anna was kneeling on her body, pushing her into the grass, and she was sure that Carol would knock her back at any moment. Carol was stronger than she was. Or so she had thought. Maybe that was another bonus of what she had done to Quint. Another part of the gift. Good, Anna thought. She wanted to be stronger. She needed to be, for this.

Carol was trying to kick her off, but Anna held firm. Carol tried to reach up and push or scratch at her, to fight back, but Anna resisted. As Carol started to go limp, Anna loosened her grip, maintaining her sitting position on top of her former friend so there was no chance of her escaping.

“You don’t get to… hurt me,” Carol breathed, and every word sounded like a struggle. “It isn’t this way round, Anna.”

“No, it wasn’t meant to be, was it?” Anna hissed back. “Carol, tell me. When it was over, when the two of you were done with us, what happened then?”

“What…?” Carol croaked.

“Would you have let him kill us if he wanted to?” Anna asked in a small, dark voice. Carol stared up at Anna. The look in her eyes was one of uncertainty, and Anna decided she had not made herself face up to the question before now. Maybe she took everything the sheriff asked of her day by day, so there was never time to feel any remorse for what was going to happen next.

“I never know if I’m going to do what he wants until I do it,” Carol answered. “It was always like that, from the start.”

“Are you sorry?” Anna asked sharply. “Are you sorry for what you did to me? Not just that night, but before. All of it. _Are you fucking sorry _, Carol?!”__

__“No,” Carol said. “I can’t be sorry.”_ _

__“Well neither can I,” Anna spat. She wrapped her fingers around Carol’s throat and constricted hard, ignoring the weak gasp that Carol let out. It lasted too long. Anna dug her hands into the meat of Carol’s neck and shook her hard, ignoring the kicks and the twitches. Carrying on long after Carol stopped moving. She carried on as tears poured down her face, dripping against Carol’s cheek. She carried on until there was no doubt in her mind that it was over. When it was done, it still wasn’t enough. Anna got up, she marched back to the car, and found the kitchen knife and the gloves that Michael had brought for her. She forced the gloves onto her trembling hands, and gripped the knife hard. She went back to Carol, who remained motionless as she had left her._ _

__Anna looked at the still figure. Carol’s eyes were half-lidded, the pretty hazel that showed matching the grass around her head. Her brown hair hung softly around her face. Her freckles seemed brighter against the sudden pallor of her skin. She looked her age. Carol never looked her age, and Anna had always thought it. Carol, covered in makeup, wrapped in the tight red fabric of her dresses, high heels and stockings jutting out from underneath, looked older. She always looked older than she was, to Anna. That was why it was so easy to trust her. She seemed like she should know. She seemed older than she was. Not anymore. Now, she looked twenty, if that. She looked small, frail. How tall was Carol? Maybe 5’1” without the heels? A little shorter than Anna was. She was slim, too, and not in the right way. Just small. Too small, too young. Too weak._ _

__Anna suddenly realised what Carol had looked like to George. Like nothing. She was barely there. There wasn’t enough of her to fight back. And that did not stop with George, Anna realised sickly. Carol hadn’t been able to fight back tonight, either._ _

__A second wave of anger boiled up inside her. Why was she feeling this way? After what Carol had done to her, she did not deserve a lick of her sympathy. This was inevitable. It wasn’t like Quint this time. This was revenge._ _

__“It was fair,” Anna whispered to herself. “After everything you did to me, Carol! This is fair! Do you understand? You deserve it!” Her voice twisted into a hiss as she went on, and the anger grew, threatening to burst her chest. Anna raised the knife. “After everything you did to me, nothing I do will be enough!”_ _

__The knife cut across Carol’s face, slicing her lip and cheek. It did not bleed as Anna had expected, and she had to remind herself that Carol was dead. Anna couldn’t hurt her anymore. Even if she wanted to. She drew the knife again and again across Carol’s face, criss-crossing, erasing everything soft and gentle that Carol had left behind. Anna turned her back into the angry red she knew, destroying the young girl that Carol had pretended to be in the moment of her death. She erased the freckles and the soft cheeks and the open lips and especially, especially, the hazel eyes that stared back at her as she did it. When Anna was done, Carol was nothing but red. There were finally no more lies, Anna told herself, looking down at her work. Carol could not pretend to be innocent anymore. She would never trick anyone with that face again._ _

__“Anna, you’ve… you’ve been a long time.” Anna jerked her head up at once and saw Michael approaching cautiously from the house. He had come to check on her. She wondered why. Surely he knew what he would find._ _

__“Ah… here,” she muttered. Michael reached her and looked down. Apparently, he had not been prepared for what he would find after all. He shook his head and darted over to the bushes surrounding Becky’s house. Anna watched him hunch over and heard the sound of him throwing up. She took her time to get up from the ground, dropping the knife down beside Carol’s deconstructed head. She walked over to him and waited._ _

__“How can… how could you do… that?” he mumbled, wiping weakly at his mouth._ _

__“You were wrong,” Anna said. “She wasn’t sorry. She told me. She wasn’t sorry at all.”_ _

__“That doesn’t mean a thing!” Michael hissed angrily. “You didn’t just kill her, you mutilated her! Can you not see that?”_ _

__“It means something to me!” Anna snapped. “She would have let the sheriff kill me, and not been sorry at all. And then kill Becky. And you, if they found out you knew. You think the sheriff would have been _gentle_? I would have ended up worse than that if he had his way. I bet he would have –”_ _

__“I don’t want to hear any of it,” Michael muttered. He paused and rolled his eyes back into his head, his face still shades of green. “You are right, of course. She might well have done the same to you and even if she hadn’t… I can’t…” He struggled to admit his next words. “I don’t blame you. I decided. For this, at least. I don’t blame you for killing her, because of what she did to you.”_ _

__“An eye for an eye and Michael turns a blind one,” Anna giggled. He was less amused._ _

__“I struggled over it,” he said firmly. “But eventually I came to see why you wanted to kill her, and I think I can understand it. As… revenge. If you have to choose people for this… I don’t know what to call it, but that… then I think she was the right choice.”_ _

__“Thank you!” Anna gasped happily. She was relieved. She could perhaps admit that her anger had carried her too far in what she had done to Carol after her death. She attempted to press Michael into a kiss, but they both thought better of it half a second in, when it was clear the faint taste of vomit and flecks of Carol’s blood was a thoroughly disgusting mix._ _

__“What are you going to do now?” Michael asked. “The FBI agent is going to have questions.”_ _

__“I have a plan, I told you I did,” Anna said. “And, er, anyway… they won’t know it’s Carol. That’s… why I had to do that to her face. That’ll make stuff more complicated.”_ _

__“Oh, I see,” Michael agreed, although he did not sound convinced. Anna was sure he knew why she had really mutilated Carol, about the anger she had felt, but was being tactful. She appreciated it._ _

__“Is Becky still in her room?” Anna asked. Michael nodded. “Okay. I need to talk to her.”_ _

__“Perhaps not with… remnants in your hair,” Michael suggested. He brushed a hand towards Anna’s hair before removing the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing at her, dealing with the worst of the blood on her face. It would not be as simple clearing everything off her sweater, so Anna pulled it over her head, thinking that she would have to do more laundry when she got home. It was a vicious cycle of laundry, really, murder. She had a t-shirt underneath and would have to hope that Becky didn’t question the change. She took off the gloves for the moment and handed them to Michael._ _

__“Just wait here,” Anna warned Michael, before going back into the house. She found Becky, curled up on top of her bed. She sat down next to her._ _

__“Anna?” Becky asked softly. “Did Carol go?”_ _

__“Eventually…” Anna sighed. It was technically true. “Listen, Becky. Carol is definitely trying to do something weird, okay? We need to try and beat her at her own game. Or she’s going to hurt us.”_ _

__“Like how?” Becky asked, propping herself up on her elbow._ _

__“Becky, she’s going to tell people that you guys argued, and you have to look like the victim of it.” Anna spoke firmly. Becky hung on her every word. Anna wondered if it was her natural charisma, or if she was getting a hand from that dark luck again. Either way, it only mattered that Becky listened. “You can’t let people know that Carol came over to fight, and then there were three of us here, okay? It’ll look like we were ganging up on her, and then she looks like the innocent one, and we look like we’re picking on her. She is so convincing when she talks, she’ll spin it however she wants.”_ _

__“She is…” Becky agreed sadly. “What do we do?”_ _

__“The only thing we can do is make her look like a liar,” Anna said, confident. Her plan was coming together. “So, if someone comes and asks about it, you have to say that we weren’t ever here. And… say that the fight with Carol happened tomorrow morning. At eight. Tomorrow morning. Do you totally get that, Becky?”_ _

__“Why then? What?” Becky asked, and Anna’s heart jumped. Becky needed to agree. It was the defining point of her plan’s success._ _

__“So that we can all agree and have the same story, if anyone asks us,” Anna said smoothly. “Because if Carol tells people you were fighting tonight, and we say it was definitely tomorrow morning instead, at eight am, she looks like a total liar! And no-one will believe anything she says after that. But it has to be tomorrow morning, cause Michael and I can’t be out tonight. We would both get in so much trouble. That’s why you need to say it was tomorrow morning at eight am.” She felt she had hammered in the time enough._ _

__“Okay, sure,” Becky agreed. “But why would they ask you guys about it?”_ _

__“Oh… I just mean, if you need someone to back up your story, I’ll say you told me about it, when it happened. Okay? So, like, you can say to them to talk to Anna if they don’t believe you, because you totally called me after Carol freaked out at you cause it was so frightening, and I will say yup, Becky did, I know it, so that’s when it was!” Anna punctuated her explanation with a wide smile and was relieved to see Becky mirror it back at her._ _

__“You think of everything,” Becky laughed._ _

__“I know… I do,” Anna agreed. Then, she switched her expression into one of concern. “We really do have to be careful with her though. If Carol killed Quint… and I think, like, we basically know she did… she’s got to be planning something else. Maybe she knows we’re onto her now.”_ _

__“Shit, then what is she gonna do?” Becky asked frantically. Anna shook her head slowly, and shrugged her shoulders._ _

__“Come up with some kind of plan to get away, I guess,” Anna said. “I dunno what I’d do if I was her, maybe…” The words just came to her, perfectly formed. “… Fake my own death, or something.” Becky’s eyes widened._ _

__“She totally might…” Becky gasped. “Oh my god! Anna, promise you’re gonna be super careful, right? Like, actually promise. I couldn’t handle losing you as well as Quint.”_ _

__“I actually promise,” Anna said, smiling gently. “But I need to get home now, before my mom finds out I was gone.”_ _

__“Yeah, sure,” Becky said. “After everything with Carol, I need a shower anyway. Ugh.” The two of them said goodbye, and Anna found herself back outside. Carol’s body remained where it had been left, Michael standing near to it but facing in the opposite direction._ _

__“What happens now?” he asked her._ _

__“Now, we make sure no-one catches us,” Anna answered. “There should be this, like, tarp thing in Becky’s pool, or near it. It’s meant to cover the pool up, you know? She never uses it. Go get it, and we’ll wrap… it… up.” Michael was eager to take the job that took him away from the body, so went at once. He returned a moment later with the tarp, and Anna noticed he was wearing the gloves. Smart. Anna borrowed his handkerchief and wiped off Carol’s neck as best she could. Hopefully it would erase any fingerprints she had left behind. She hadn’t noticed a pathologist sent to accompany the FBI agent, so it was likely the nice doctor from the hospital was actually performing the autopsies. Anna was not sure how thorough he would be in swabbing his neighbours’ corpses._ _

__“I think I may get rid of that handkerchief,” Michael admitted in what was clearly, Anna was pleased to note, an attempt to lighten the mood._ _

__“Lie the thing down,” Anna instructed, and Michael spread the tarp out on the ground. Anna rolled Carol into it with the tip of her shoe. “God, ick!” she said, shivering. “We will super definitely have to clean up after ourselves.”_ _

__“Yes, I suppose murder is quite a messy job,” Michael sighed. He was wearing a ghost of a smile. Anna almost felt excited. He was coming around. Things were starting to go her way, all right._ _

__“We need to carry her to the pool,” Anna said. “She has to go somewhere overnight.”_ _

__“Why overnight?” Michael asked. “Won’t it be easier to dispose of… ah, of this tarp while it is dark outside?” He was right, of course, but there was another level to Anna’s plan. With the FBI snooping around, she needed more than just luck._ _

__“Trust me,” Anna said, smiling. “Trust the plan.” Michael had little choice but to do just that. Anna wrapped her sweater around her hands and together they carried Carol’s tarped body around the back of Becky’s house to the empty pool, and slid it in. “There,” Anna sighed. “She can stay there until morning.”_ _

__“And what happens in the morning?” Michael asked her._ _

__“In the morning,” Anna said. “I get my alibi.”_ _


	57. From Above

Chapter Fifty-Seven. [ From Above ]

It was later than Anna was comfortable with by the time she finally finished all the arrangements and got home, but she shouldn’t have worried. Sallie was still out. Anna wondered just what exactly the plan had been. Did her mother expect her to still be out at a bar, at this time? She must have known Anna would come home at some point to sleep. Perhaps the Raincoat Killer was off the clock after midnight in Sallie’s world. Anna had left all the remainders of the evening with Michael. Her sweater, the gloves, the knife. It was all undoubtedly tucked into the trunk of his car. It would all disappear before anyone heard a whisper of what had happened to Carol. It was just as well. Anna needed to sleep, if she was going to make her appointment at the sheriff’s department in the morning.

Agent York was very understanding. He was gentle with her, in fact, and kind in a way that she had not expected. He seemed interested in listening to what she had to say, and not just the things that were directly related to his case. Although, Anna supposed, everything she told him was related in a way. She told him some things about Carol, personal things that it felt good to tell someone, but not enough to incriminate her. She was sure she was still just an empty-headed teenage girl to the FBI agent by the end of her speech.

It was when George appeared that she felt afraid. Despite where they were, and their shared company, she felt an air of aggression from the sheriff that warned her not to talk. Luckily for him, she had no intention of spilling the secret they had in common. When he eventually left the room, Anna began to worry about the time. About whether or not everything had gone according to plan. She was rewarded when the deputy sheriff appeared and told Agent York that a body had been found.

Anna went straight into acting mode, to such a degree she worried she was pushing it. She insisted the body had to be Becky, forcing out waves of tears, practically screaming. But her performance was a winner. Agent York and Deputy Wyatt were convinced. They arranged to have Thomas MacLaine drive her home, and Anna suddenly went numb. Carol’s brother. When they were alone in the car, Anna clammed up and went silent, all the way home. She couldn’t look at him. Not knowing what she had done. Before, she had assigned him to the same place in her mind as Carol and the sheriff. Bad people. People who were responsible for what had happened to her. But it was harder to keep feeling that way when Thomas had not been there that night, when he had barely ever said a word to her. He was not part of it, not in the same way, but he was still going to pay for it. As soon as they realised whose body it was.

When Anna was inside, she made a quick call to Becky, hung up, and then sat, waiting for a moment. She had no way of knowing if everything had worked out. She wouldn’t, until that night. If it had gone wrong, then she was about to become incredibly suspicious. And there was nothing to do but wait and see. Besides, she had to get ready for work.

As Anna locked the door of her house behind her, she heard someone approach. Surely Agent York was not here for her already. She spun around, brandishing the keys, only to see that it was her eerie benefactor instead. Forrest Kaysen.

“What are you doing following me now?” she snapped. “Someone’ll see you.”

“Oh, well, I’m pretty sure they won’t,” Forrest said, grinning. Anna could only assume they were safe from detection for now. She relaxed a little. “Seems you’ve been busy, my little firecracker!” Forrest laughed. Anna never liked his tone.

“Yeah, I guess,” she muttered. Forrest acted as if she had told a joke.

“Gee, what a nice surprise!” he laughed. “Two already! Y’know, most folks don’t make it past one. They get caught, or they break the rules somehow. But you, oh, you have been careful! Everything by the book, you should be doing my job!”

“Gross!” Anna spat. The Dalmatian that always seemed to be at Forrest’s heels barked. Anna glared at it and took a step backward.

“The important thing, Little Ms. By-the-Book,” Kaysen said, lifting his eyebrows. “Is I’m impressed. Only two to go! And how are you feeling about it all? Regretful? Saddened? Been crying it out?”

“No,” Anna said coldly. “I’m… enjoying it.” She was hardly going to tell him the truth.

“Sure, sure you have,” he laughed, a touch mean. Certainly doubtful. “Well, you just keep it up. I sure hope I get to have a real winner in my corner soon!”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Anna reminded him.

“Naw, they never are,” Forrest chuckled. “Not consciously. It’s all for the big reward! What a thrill! Course some people don’t enjoy themselves much. Get all depressed when they think about what they’ve done.”

“That won’t be me,” Anna said, conjuring all the certainty she could. She shouldn’t have had to force it. She was certain. This was what she wanted. It was what was best.

“At times we must purge things from this world, because they should not exist. Even if it means losing someone that you love,” Forrest said darkly, breaking from his usual friendly front for a moment. “I heard that from someone, a long time ago. Sums it up, doesn’t it?” And the outward friendliness was back, as if it had never faded.

“I never loved Carol,” Anna whispered hoarsely. For some reason, she felt choked. She could not understand why.

“I never said you did, my little firecracker,” Forrest laughed. He turned, disappearing down the street at a stroll. He may as well have been leaving a conversation with an old friend, with the way he acted.

“He doesn’t know… he doesn’t know anything,” Anna told herself quietly. She really had to move. She wanted to get to work.

♦ ♦ ♦

That evening, Anna found herself walking up the steps to the observation deck at Greenvale Forest Park. It was a gloomy night, with odd moments of rain, and the spot was far enough out of the way that there was no chance of being seen. Besides, Michael had suggested it. He was there already when she arrived, sitting under the wooden roof on a bench, waiting. He stood when he saw her.

“Hey, sorry, it wasn’t easy getting out tonight,” she apologised, taking a seat next to him on the bench. “My mom doesn’t want me working at the diner anymore. She doesn’t even want me leaving the house until they catch the murderer. Like, be careful what you wish for, mom!”

“That’s funny,” Michael said without much hint of a smile.

“Did everything go… okay?” Anna asked carefully. She had not been arrested, so she had to assume it had, but Michael seemed off. Really, that could only be expected, after what she had asked him to do.

“It went as planned,” he said. “I did what you asked, exactly.”

“Tell me,” Anna demanded. She had to know every detail, just in case he had missed something. Michael sighed, then he began to recount the morning’s events.

“I fetched the body this morning without waking anyone,” Michael began. “And put it into Carol’s car, as you suggested. It had not been moved all night, though I doubt Becky left the house at all. She is unlikely to have noticed Carol didn’t drive it off last night. I wore gloves, and cleaned the steering wheel for good measure. As you said, perhaps they will think she is still alive.”

“And switched the body out with some random out-of-towner, yeah,” Anna added. It felt more like something from a television crime drama than anything, but even if the FBI didn’t believe that Carol was still alive, Becky needed to. Michael nodded, and went on.

“I took the car to the lake, that part was not a problem. Although I know I rushed. It was… well, it was… very…”

“Stressful,” Anna provided.

“Yes, very,” Michael agreed with a sigh. “I accidentally… I drove slightly too far. The car became stuck in the mud by the lake. I was rushing.”

“It’s not like you to drive too fast,” Anna said, smiling weakly.

“No, I suppose not,” Michael agreed. “I imagine it will be hard for them to move it again. Then… it took me too long to get the body out of the car. I know I was panicking. But I managed, I moved it and placed it in the water as best I could. I cleaned the knife and threw it into the lake as well, although I don’t know why you wanted me to.”

“It’s better than them finding it in one of our houses, isn’t it?” Anna asked, as if it was obvious. “Anyway, if you wiped it off then they won’t find any fingerprints on it. If they even find it at all! It’s completely fine.”

“Yes, it should be,” Michael said. “Well… it was hard for me, Anna. To do this. All of this has been very hard for me.”

“I know, and I appreciate it so much!” Anna said quickly, grabbing for his hands and squeezing them in hers. “What next? What happened after you dumped Carol?”

“After I moved her…” Michael started hesitantly. “I left the tarp in the car, I couldn’t remember if you wanted that or not. Then I ran. I ran back to where I had parked my own car, near Becky’s house. And I drove home.”

“Woah, wait,” Anna interrupted. “You remembered the note, right?”

“Oh yes, of course. I placed it in her glove box before I went to fetch the… tarp.” Michael’s face twisted into a frown. “Anna, I do hope you know what you’re doing with those. I wiped the paper off, but I made no real attempt to disguise my handwriting when I wrote it. I have to trust you. The Raincoat Killer idea… why did you choose that?”

“I told you before, remember, it seemed like a nice fit,” Anna said. “Anyway. It’ll confuse that FBI agent. It’s weird, creepy shit and the longer he spends with his nose in a history book trying to work it all out, the more chances we have to get away with stuff.” She remembered the words of the second note, having read it before handing it over to Michael the night before. ‘The Rebirth of the Raincoat Killer. On rainy nights. They eat the seeds. They die for him. Another step closer to victory.’ What an appropriate note to leave with Carol. She would not be eating those red seeds anymore, Anna thought. Though it was thoughtful of Carol to have eaten them in advance of her death. It saved Anna the trouble. And now, she was one step closer. Two down, as Forrest had said.

“As you know, I have to trust you,” Michael sighed. “But as you also know, there is a trail leading back to Mr. Stewart. A trail that includes the two of us, since I told you that story.” Anna ignored him.

“What did you wear?” she asked. “Like, to dump the body. Not your usual clothes, right?”

“No, not this,” Michael assured her. “I found some things in my wardrobe, from when I was a teenager, that still fit. Just about. A black jacket with a hood. On the off chance that anyone saw me on the street, I should think they wouldn’t recognise me. It would have been impossible to see my face, in those clothes.”

“Wait, you used to have normal clothes?” Anna asked immediately, missing the point. Michael shot her a look, tilting his head, as if to remind her they were talking about what disguise he had worn to dispose of a body.

“Mr. Stewart prefers me to look smart,” he said instead. “We have an image to uphold.”

“And a game to play, I remember,” Anna muttered. “I don’t see why he can’t just tell people. Like, ‘this is my son, say hello!’, but I guess that’s too complicated. It would be way more simple to tell everyone he hired a twenty-one-year-old assistant, right?” She could not quite help but sound bitter.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Michael said icily, before quickly melting. “No. I haven’t been good enough yet. I’m… getting worse.”

“How?” Anna asked sharply.

“I… I…” Michael stammered, struggling with his latest confession. “I lost my carving.”

“Your bird carving?” Anna asked, and he nodded fervently, clearly upset. “When?”

“After I… today,” Michael said. “After what happened this morning. I lost it. I know I left it at the house before I went to fetch the body, it was there in my bedroom when I got back, but sometime after… It was gone.”

“So you lost it somewhere…” Anna said. She remembered that first night they had really spoken, and how he had let it drop out of his pocket in the diner before coming to look for it. She would check for him the next time she was allowed into work, just in case the same thing had happened.

“How can I expect Mr. Stewart to care about me when I keep losing that carving?” Michael sighed into his hands. “It’s a symbol of everything that is expected of me. I’m a fool.”

“You were just stressed, Michael, don’t worry, okay?” Anna said, putting an arm around him. “Maybe it’s in the diner. I might find it. I mean, when my mom lets me go back into work. She sounded serious.” She stopped, and tried to force a laugh. “Hey, it’s kind of funny though, right? I hope the FBI don’t realise the killer is taking a break because they’re grounded!” She laughed a little, but it sounded fake and hollow, to both of them.

“You are stopping for a while?” Michael asked, sounding numb.

“Yeah,” Anna said. “Just until my mom calms down and I… work out what to do next.”

“That’s good,” Michael agreed. “This is difficult. It’s good to take our time.” They sat in silence for a while, and eventually Anna got up and walked over to the edge of the observation deck, looking out over the trees and the river. It was the same river that Velvet Falls fed into. It was an impressive sight. Very clear and quiet, at this time of night. She stood for a while before Michael came over to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and leaning against her shoulder.

“I like to come here by myself,” he said softly. “When I have the time. It’s always quiet, and I like Greenvale from above. You can forget what all the people are like, when you’re this high up. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes. I do,” Anna agreed. “You can forget everything up here.” They were quiet again for a while, before she carried on. “You said you don’t remember much before you came here, didn’t you?”

“I remember some things,” Michael said. “But those memories don’t have anything to do with me anymore. So I don’t want to hold on to them.”

“Did you have friends back then?” Anna asked. Michael wrinkled his nose. He clearly wanted the conversation to drop, but still, he dutifully answered.

“Not especially,” he said. “I’ve always been by myself more often than not.”

“That’s why you got picked, right?” Anna said dryly. “Cause you’re quiet and respectful and you were never gonna cause any trouble? Isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” Michael agreed unhappily. “In part. I was chosen because I have the potential to be… what Mr. Stewart wants. Needs.”

“Yeah, right,” Anna breathed. He turned on her, upset, but she carried on regardless. “He just chose you because he could control you easily! Because you put up with being locked away in that house all the time! Or, I don’t know, for _some_ weird reason. There’s no magic happy family answer to it all, Michael! He uses you! You’ll never be good enough, because there is no good enough. There’s only ever gonna be more games. God, why do you put up with it? Why do you let him treat you like trash? Like you’re… I don’t know, like you’re part of the furniture! He certainly doesn’t treat you like his son, and he never will! He never will! You have to get out of there, Michael! God. God. Anything would be better than that!” When she was done, Michael gave her a moment to catch her breath. He stood still and, when she was waiting for his reply, he gave it in a cold, quiet voice.

“Then you should have told that to me when I was fifteen years old, and quite desperate to escape from the group home I spent my childhood in. I would have taken far worse options than what I ended up with to get away, believe me, Anna. Perhaps in a year or two, I would have found something else. Maybe, as you say, that would have been better. After all, what could be worse than this? Certainly, living with Mr. Stewart is not perfect, but I have my own space, and means. I have a chance at a future, now, that I would not have expected before. If your mother had died along with your father, and you had been unfortunate, and ended up somewhere similar to where I did, then I doubt we would be having this conversation about how you cannot imagine anything worse than my current life.” He stopped, letting it sink in. Anna felt embarrassed. She walked away from him, going back to the bench and sitting down. Maybe he was right. He probably was, and she had probably gone overboard, but she had her reasons. And just because life with Harry was a step up, it didn’t mean she had to think it was perfect. Or even healthy.

“Fine,” she said. “Fine. Be happy for it. You can still do better.”

“I will,” Michael said. He came back to sit beside her. “In time, I will. I know it.”

“You don’t have to be so grateful to him,” Anna muttered. “All he’s ever given you is a wooden bird.” Michael sighed to himself. Anna knew he was trying to get through to her, but accepting his logic was not an option. Not knowing what was coming.

“He’s given me a home,” Michael said.

“Yeah, he lets you live in his huge empty house,” Anna countered. “And only because you do everything for him. That’s not a favour to you, it’s just for him.”

“He does care about me, Anna,” Michael sighed. Surely he realised he wasn’t winning her over. “He gave me a very expensive sword on my last birthday, because he trusted that I would look after it.”

“A sword?” she asked, curiously.

“Yes, a katana,” Michael said, sounding slightly excited that she had not shot him down immediately this time. “And I do take care of it. It’s in my bedroom, in a case under my bed. I should show you it, it’s beautiful.”

“So he really broke the bank,” Anna said sarcastically. “To basically give you another chore. And why a Japanese sword? Aren’t you Chinese?”

“Anna, that isn’t the point! It was a gesture, and I appreciated it!” Michael was getting sick of the conversation, Anna could tell. Even if they had originally been talking about covering up a murder, apparently this was where it went over the line. So she dropped it. It was a shame she couldn’t convince him, but it clearly wasn’t happening tonight. It might be easier to make her point later.

“I don’t know when I can see you next,” she said. “My mom… well, I told you. I have to stay inside whenever I can.” Michael nodded.

“I have to agree,” he said. “I worry that Mr. Stewart is going to notice if I keep leaving at odd times. This morning, he asked why I was so late waking up, and I had to say I was feeling sick. Apparently I looked ill enough to be convincing, after what I had to do. I hope he did not realise that I was outside. I told him I was going to bed early as well, as I was still feeling sick, so I could meet you. But it won’t work every time.”

“Is he getting suspicious?” Anna asked nervously. The last thing she needed was for Harry to go to the police. “Is he?”

“No… no, I don’t think so.” Michael hesitated. “He tends to be somewhat paranoid, after the life he’s lived. You know that’s why he refuses to take off the gasmask outside, I think. In case there is some essence of the red seeds in the air. At least… I think it’s that. So, even if he did wonder about my behaviour, I’m sure he would put it down to that attitude of his.”

“Oh, no, Michael, that isn’t good!” Anna insisted. “Look, you can’t risk him saying something to that FBI agent!”

“He wouldn’t,” Michael said in a small voice. “Even if he… no, he wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Are you sure?” Anna pressed, and he wasn’t, so he didn’t answer. “Look, I don’t think the police trust him, but maybe they should trust him… less.”

“What are you suggesting, Anna?” Michael sighed, ready for whatever it was.

“Just drop some kind of hint. I mean, that covers up why you were acting funny as well, doesn’t it?” Anna said, and then went on as Michael began to object. “Don’t incriminate him, obviously! But say something so there’s a reason you’ve both been acting a bit… whatever. Like you have.”

“Well… I suppose I could do,” Michael hesitantly accepted. “I have to trust you. You are far better at this than I am. So I’ll do what you think is best.”

“Good, thank you,” Anna said. “You can say…” She tried to think on the spot. “Say he’s having shady meetings. No! Say he’s making weird phone calls. That makes more sense. Say you don’t know who to, and that they can’t say anything to him.”

“Will that work?” Michael asked.

“If you act scared, it will,” she promised. “Just act scared of Harry. Act like a victim. The FBI agent will eat it up. He thinks I’m totally sweet and innocent.”

“Does he?” Michael laughed. “I wonder if he’ll ever realise how wrong he is.”

“Hey!” Anna protested lightly, nudging him in the ribs. “I am totally sweet. And hopefully that’s a big no! If he realises, then we’re in trouble. Just act all… I dunno, act like me. Like you’re gonna go weak at the knees and swoon into the handsome agent’s protective arms any minute. Okay?”

“You think he would have me?” Michael offered sarcastically and Anna laughed at him. “All right. I’ll try something like that, but if he asks more questions, or heaven forbid brings it up with Mr. Stewart –”

“He won’t!” Anna said. “He won’t. Don’t worry. Trust me.”

“Don’t I always?” Michael said. Anna rested her head on his shoulder. For a while, they looked out at the dark shapes of the trees, knowing that Greenvale was down below, bubbling with a fear that they had brought into the world. Anna wished she could stay there, up above the town, forever. The next part was not going to be easy.


	58. Happy Family

Chapter Fifty-Eight. [ Happy Family ]

With the second murder out of the way, Anna was beginning to feel more confident that she was getting away with it. Until the morning Agent York came to knock on her door.

Sallie had said she was going to be out all night and Anna, knowing another opportunity would not be coming for a while, invited Becky and Michael over to spend the night at her house. For a while, it was almost like before. Better than before, she thought, because there was no Quint there to get in the way. Becky was even starting to sound like her old self. She had gone back to work, apparently, and she managed to laugh, so long as the conversation stayed light. The three of them had spent the night watching movies in the living room before finally going to bed. The next morning, they were sitting around the kitchen table, when Becky brought up the murders.

“Do you think they realise Carol isn’t dead?” she asked. Michael paused with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth and looked at Anna.

“Uh, who knows?” Anna said carefully. “I mean, her brother works with the police. I’m sure he doesn’t want to think she died. But she… she sure did a good job faking her death, though.”

“She certainly did,” Michael muttered. Anna glared at him.

“What if she isn’t the killer?” Becky suggested, much to Anna’s dismay. “I mean, like, I really do think she is, but… you never know, do you? What do you think, Anna?”

“I think it has to be her,” Anna said. “No-one else would kill Quint. He was nice, everyone liked him. Carol is the only one who actually hated him.”

“My sister didn’t like him much, but it’s not like she knew him,” Becky mused sadly. “Everyone else always liked him. Lilly was saying how sad it is.”

“Oh my god, that must be hard,” Anna agreed, patting Becky’s shoulder. Becky shrugged and continued to pick at her breakfast cereal. Anna was just thinking about getting up to get some of her own, when Becky said something else.

“Anna, are you two still, you know, a secret?” she asked, motioning to Michael with her spoon.

“Why?” Anna asked uncertainly. If anything, it had to be more of a secret now than before.

“It just seems like with that FBI agent poking around everywhere, someone might find out,” Becky said. “Maybe it’d be better if your mom heard it from you first, so she doesn’t freak out. He seems to know a lot. Like, a lot of stuff.”

“I don’t want anyone to know, Becky,” Anna insisted. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No,” Becky assured her, stabbing the milk with the spoon idly. “But if he finds you out and your mom blows up, I told you so.”

“Fine, you told me so,” Anna said, trying to laugh it off. She wasn’t as worried as she had been. After all, she had invited Michael over to her house. She was beginning to feel more secure every day that went past without incident. And then came the knock at the door.

“Oh shit,” Becky mouthed, turning to stare at the front door. Anna’s heart leapt into her throat. It was almost like they had summoned trouble just by talking about it. Maybe her luck was running out.

“Go hide in my mom’s closet,” Anna whispered to Michael, who did not need to be told twice. He hopped up from the table and rushed off, making too much noise for Anna to be comfortable, but disappearing a moment later. Becky stayed where she was, and Anna went to get the door.

Fortunately enough, when she actually let Agent York in, he was only interested in following up on a lead he’d discovered in Quint’s trailer. He was there to talk to Becky. The reminder of her marriage plans with Quint sent Becky back into a fog, and Anna was angry at York for bringing it up, but there was nothing she could do. He still seemed oblivious to what had really happened. The idea that he was interrupting breakfast at the Raincoat Killer’s house had clearly not occurred to him. He declared he was leaving, and she thought she was safe. As she finally got up to get some breakfast, Agent York caught her off guard and she froze.

“Weren’t you already eating when I arrived?”

Anna realised that it must suddenly be obvious that there had been another person at the table, and internally cursed her stupid mistake. She tried to talk her way out of it, and Becky shot her the ‘I told you so’ look she had promised. Whether York believed her weak excuse about wanting a new bowl of cereal or not, he didn’t wait around to pursue it. When he was gone, Anna sighed in relief.

“Nice save,” Becky joked. “Well, I doubt he’ll tell your mom anyway.”

“Yeah, my mom doesn’t like him much,” Anna laughed, relaxing now that the danger had passed. For now, at least. “She thinks he’s dragging his feet.”

“What can he do if he can’t find Carol, though?” Becky asked. “She must be hiding out in the forest or something. Until she… tries to hurt someone new, I guess.”

“It won’t be us, Becky, we know to be careful,” Anna said. “That’s what matters, right?”

“You’re right, yeah,” Becky agreed. “I just think it’s scary, like, she could hurt anyone. Probably someone else from school, if that whole serial killer thing they’re saying is true.”

“Probably,” Anna acknowledged. “Anyway, let me go get Michael. I can’t leave him in there all day.” Becky nodded, and Anna went off to find him. He was sitting on the floor of the closet as he’d been told to, and blinked up at her when she appeared.

“Did he leave?” Michael asked.

“Yes, he’s gone. And he doesn’t know you were here. He was a bit… he might have thought someone was, maybe, but he doesn’t know it was you.” She smiled.

“That is a relief,” Michael said, getting to his feet. “It won’t do for him to grow suspicious of us before your… third attempt.”

“No, totally,” Anna said. “So, you’re okay with that? You know I have to keep going?”

“It would be foolish to stop now, I suppose,” Michael said quietly. “Then it would all be in vain. I don’t think I can interfere with what is clearly fate. Your success will be… it will be a good thing, surely, for both of us.” Anna hugged him tightly. She noticed he still had not asked her the crucial question of who the third victim was going to be. He probably didn’t want to know. And she was glad, because she didn’t want to tell him. She couldn’t tell him. He was not ready to accept that Harry Stewart had to die.

♦ ♦ ♦

A couple of days later, Anna got a call from Michael. She could tell at once that he was upset, stressed, and paranoid. It took her a moment to calm him enough to hear why.

“He’s at the house,” Michael hissed in a frightened voice. When Anna asked who, he sighed raggedly, as if it should have been obvious. “The Agent. Mr. Francis York Morgan. Mr. Stewart invited him! He invited him over to talk!”

“Then why aren’t you all talking?” Anna asked. Michael let out a small panicked bleat. She was clearly not appreciating the situation enough for his taste.

“They are talking! Directly!” he moaned. “Mr. Stewart wanted me out of the room. He is _talking_ to the FBI agent!” Now Anna got it. Even in the safety of her own bedroom, her eyes snapped wide open.

“Shit,” she breathed. “Do you think…?”

“I don’t know what to think!” Michael answered. He was not crying, Anna thought, but it wasn’t too far off. She had to calm him down. This was bad. “They tried to get me to speak to them yesterday. The agent, and the deputy sheriff. They followed me to the hospital! They got me alone!”

“What did they ask?” Anna gasped.

“This is about what I told them,” Michael whined. “About the phone calls. They will not let it drop. I tried to back out of it, and tell them it was nothing, but they refused to listen. I said it was a bad idea, Anna. It was a terrible idea. It’s only got their attention!”

“Look, just… like, calm down, relax,” Anna said, trying to sound calm herself. Michael would not listen. He was far too wound up.

“Now he’s here,” Michael went on. “Mr. Stewart invited him. He would not tell me why, but I know. It’s because of how I’ve been acting. Mr. Stewart is suspicious of me. Oh, Anna! He always knows. He always knows what is happening, so he must… he knows, about me. About what we’ve done.”

“There’s no way he knows!” Anna insisted. “You think he would let his son run around murdering people and not tell the police?”

“I haven’t killed anyone!” Michael cried out, and Anna shushed him. “I haven’t,” he repeated. “I know I helped you, I know I moved the body, but I… I haven’t hurt anyone.”

“So, what?” Anna hissed, scared suddenly by his attitude change. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“Never…” Michael breathed. “I swear I won’t, but I… Tell me it won’t come to that. Tell me we won’t be found out?”

“We won’t,” Anna said quickly. “Never. And Harry doesn’t know, there’s no way he knows. He must just… I mean, he must be pissed that the FBI was snooping around. He’s a pretty private person, so it would obviously annoy him that some FBI agent is like, hello? Got any secrets? Spill them already!” To her relief, Michael laughed a little, even though it was in a nervy, agitated way.

“Yes…” he breathed. “Perhaps. You must be right.”

“Michael,” Anna said softly. “You know, like, I wouldn’t sell you out. I mean, if they actually got suspicious of you for real. I won’t let them think you did it. I wouldn’t let anyone I cared about get hurt instead of me. I promise.”

“Thank you. And I will keep you safe, as well. I promise,” Michael agreed. They paused for a second, out of things to say. Then Anna heard Michael climb up from his bed and walk across the room. When he came back to the phone, he spoke more carefully, and quieter. “They are still talking,” he said. “I cannot hear much.”

“You don’t know what it’s about?” Anna asked.

“I’ll listen again,” Michael said. Anna waited. He was listening for a while, and when he came back the anticipation was getting to her.

“So?” she asked impatiently.

“I believe that...” Michael began uncertainly. “It seems that Mr. Stewart is discussing his past. What happened back when he was young. You know what I mean. I can’t tell how much detail he’s going into, but I think… he’s telling the story of the Raincoat Killer.”

“Oh… god,” Anna said. This could go badly for them. “At least it’s not about you, though?”

“No. They are certainly not talking about me,” Michael agreed. “But why would he bring this up now? He told me shortly after the FBI agent arrived in Greenvale that there was no point in telling him about the past, as it wasn’t related to what was happening today. It was meant to stay a family secret. So, why?”

“All happy families love their secrets,” Anna sighed to herself. In the interest of keeping Michael calm while Agent York was talking with Harry, she spent a while talking through all the possibilities with him. It was hard to decode why Harry had suddenly decided to break his silence, and though the conversation dragged on, they did not seem to get any closer to the answer. Eventually, there came a knock on the door, and Michael breathed in sharply.

“It must be him,” Michael whispered. “Mr. Stewart would call out to me.”

“Then answer him, but he can’t know we were talking,” Anna hissed back. Michael hesitated for a second before he was able to collect himself.

“Yes?” Michael called out. He still had the phone pressed to his face, and he must not have moved from the bed, Anna thought. She could not hear Agent York on the other side of the door, but it was clear he answered.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He… w-wants me to go to the sheriff’s department to answer questions,” Michael stammered under his breath. Another exchange through the door, and he added, “He says it will be an hour. At least an hour.” The idea suddenly came into Anna’s head. Again, the perfect opportunity had been handed to her on a plate. Lucky. She had been wondering how to get Michael away from Harry long enough to do what she had to do. She should really send Agent York a fruit basket at this point, for helping her out so much.

“You gotta go!” she insisted.

“What? I can’t!” Michael whispered. He was scared, and Anna didn’t blame him, but she was sure this was going to seem like nothing compared to the rest of his night. “What will he ask me?”

“He’s bound to just ask about whatever Harry was saying?” she suggested. “It will seriously be fine. Just be careful and don’t, like, accidentally blurt out that you know the killer. And that she’s totally cute. That won’t be so hard.”

“Anna, are you serious?” Michael breathed. “How can I… he could ask me anything!”

“The questions don’t matter, only your answers matter,” Anna said firmly. “Besides, you can’t say no. How suspicious would that look! You have to do it, Michael. It’s important.” Michael did not answer for a few moments and Anna began to worry that he was going to refuse to go. But he finally sighed, and she knew it was happening.

“I’ll speak to you afterwards,” he said, and hung up the phone. Anna jumped up at once. She couldn’t waste a single second.

♦ ♦ ♦

The drive over to the Stewart mansion was sombre. Anna knew that tonight was going to change things, everything, probably even more than Quint’s murder had. She sped the whole way over there, worrying she might accidentally cross paths with Agent York on the road. Though even if they drove past one another, he wouldn’t recognise her car. She was safer than she thought, probably. She parked the car back in its old spot, finding the irony funny. She was bringing Harry back his borrowed car. Too bad he wouldn’t have time to appreciate it. She found the side door and let herself into the house. Michael tended to leave the doors unlocked during the day, she knew, in case Harry wanted to go out in a hurry. He locked up at night, and she was glad to see he hadn’t done it before leaving for the sheriff’s department. Despite advertising its wealth to anyone in town, the Stewart mansion had never been burgled, as far as she knew. Perhaps no-one else wanted to risk crossing Harry Stewart.

When she was inside, she went straight for the kitchen, avoiding the main dining hall where she suspected Harry would be. Hopefully the sound of the waterfall outside the window would mask her footsteps. She had only been into their kitchen once, when Michael had taken her there late at night to get something to drink. She remembered the way. She wondered if anyone who didn’t know the place so well would be able to manage what she was planning tonight. Probably not. Michael should thank her, really, for choosing tonight. Without the alibi she was building for him, he would undoubtedly become the number one suspect.

It was lucky that Sallie was out again, Anna thought, as she explored the kitchen. She had gone to Richard’s for the night, and would never notice that Anna was missing. Everything had fallen into place for tonight. The stars aligned. Anna wondered why. Was it just a coincidence, or was it really fate? And if it was fate, there was only one person who could have set it in motion. She shivered. The idea that Forrest Kaysen was taking a liking to her did not sit well. Not at all.

She found a drawer filled with kitchen knives in various sizes. One of them was already missing, she knew, and was currently sitting at the bottom of Lake Knowledge, having been used to makeover Carol for her big day. It would have been hard to tell that any were gone. Anna began to take out the knives. She was already wearing gloves, having come prepared. She had settled on a new solution to protect her clothes from the blood, as well. It felt like an amusing touch. She had laughed when the idea came to her. In her mother’s closet, she had found an old raincoat. Something she remembered from one of the family photos they occasionally looked at together when Sallie felt nostalgic and wanted to remember a time when they were a happy family of three. The picture saw Anna as a little girl holding hands with each of her parents, splashing in a puddle, laughing. Sallie was wearing the raincoat. It must have been a happy memory for her mother, but Anna could not remember the day at all. All she needed was the coat. She already had it on over her clothes.

She shoved the knives into the coat’s pockets, making a mental note not to walk too fast. It was a shame that she knew time was not on her side tonight. She wanted to enjoy this one. She felt far readier in advance of her third kill than she had with the first two. Maybe it got easier with time.

Anna walked through to the dining hall. It was dark, the daylight outside fading, and neither Harry nor Michael had left on any of the lights inside the room. The idea that Harry would just sit in the dark, waiting for Michael to return, bothered Anna. It seemed spiteful. No wonder Michael hated leaving him alone in the day. As she slowly approached Harry’s chair, emerging from the darkness that erased the edges of the room, he turned his head towards her.

“It’s you,” he said. Anna had to stop herself from freezing up. She had never heard his voice before, and coming from behind the gasmask it felt too heavy, too removed, as if the words had been projected through a loudspeaker hidden somewhere in the ceiling.

“It’s me what?” she asked icily, forcing her legs to keep moving, until she was standing close by, in front of him.

“It’s you, that Michael has been sneaking around after,” Harry answered, and he stopped to laugh. The laughter was unwelcoming. Anna felt that she was the butt of the joke, and not meant to find it as funny as he did.

“What?” Anna asked. This was not the greeting she had expected.

“I used to be young, although youngsters always forget that,” Harry said. His tone was hard to make out. Anna could not tell if he was angry, amused, or bored. “Do they think the rest of us were born old?” He laughed a little again, still without warmth. “No. I mean that I remember acting like he is now, and I also remember thinking that I was being subtle. But we never are, when we’re young, and our parents always know what we’ve been doing.”

“Right,” Anna said. She was unsure what his point was going to be, but she waited to hear it.

“Michael has been acting oddly for months, and there are only so many reasons why that might be,” Harry continued, acting as though he was narrating to himself, rather than an audience. “He isn’t the type of boy to get into any real trouble, so it had to be… this.” He gestured vaguely toward Anna and she folded her arms across her chest.

“You noticed him sneaking out, or whatever,” Anna added for him.

“Yes, that,” Harry laughed quietly for his own benefit. “How long has it been? Certainly a few months of this behaviour, and he still doesn’t seem to realise that I noticed straight away. As I said. I remember being young, and we never do.”

“All right, fine, are we in trouble?” Anna sighed. This was an awkwardly inane conversation to be having with pockets stuffed full of kitchen knives and red seeds.

“I want to know why you’re here, after so much secrecy,” Harry said, firmly this time. “Michael is not here, but then you did not try and sneak off to see him anyway. You came to talk to me.”

“I did,” Anna admitted. And what a conversation it was going to be.

“Then what do you want, Anna?” Harry asked, and Anna shuddered at the use of her name. She had hoped he didn’t know it, but she should have known better. Harry had been coming into the A&G diner as long as she had been working there, and he obviously had an eye for details. Of course he would have remembered her name. She wondered if he had suspected all along that it was her Michael had been seeing, or if the question had been up in the air. Not that it made a difference.

“I want to talk to you,” Anna said coldly, taking a step forward.

“Is it about Michael?” Harry asked dryly. Anna nodded. It was, after all. That was why she had picked Harry. If he had been a better person, if he had treated his son with more respect, then perhaps their first meeting would have been over dinner, instead of a knife’s edge.

“Of course it is,” she breathed.

“If you’re pregnant, then I have to say, there are more pressing concerns at hand. Haven’t you heard that there’s a serial killer in Greenvale tonight?” Harry said. Anna flexed her fingers angrily. It was not a joke. As far as Harry knew, the Raincoat Killer had been stalking teenagers and disposing of them during the night. After Quint and Carol, Anna and Michael could easily be considered possible victims. And he didn’t seem to care at all. It meant nothing to him.

“Oh, there’s a killer out in Greenvale tonight. You have absolutely got that right.” Anna took another step forward. She was very close to him now, practically standing at his feet. Whether it was at the way she had spoken, or the anger in her voice, Harry laughed. His shoulders shook and he seemed completely detached from the poorly concealed rage she was feeling. He kept laughing right up until the knife entered his shoulder.

Harry stopped dead. He turned to look at the wound. It wasn’t that deep, Anna had been shaking as she did it, but when he tried to move his arm it would not respond. It twitched uselessly, and Anna realised she had done more damage than she’d intended.

“Ah…” Harry breathed. “It’s you.”

“That’s right,” Anna said. She pulled another of the knives from her raincoat’s pocket and brandished it at him, holding the point just under his chin. “Did the incredible Harry Stewart not realise that? I thought you had eyes everywhere. Well, you missed a spot.”

As the blood started to seep from the wound and the shock ended, Harry felt the pain in a sudden smack. He let out a choked sound that was muffled behind his mask, and hunched forward, slipping against the knife, which Anna had to shift out of his way. She didn’t want to risk killing him before the ritual was over. If she screwed up and Forrest refused to count it, she would have to pick a new third token.

“You didn’t know who the killer was?” Anna teased again, happy to have this to hold over his head. “You didn’t know what was happening under your nose?”

“You are a monster,” Harry spat. He held his good arm against the bloodied shoulder, just under the knife, trying to keep the blood from spilling too fast. “What reason do you have for doing this?”

“Plenty of reasons,” Anna said coldly. “Let’s start with why I’m here tonight. But wait. I’d rather talk about it… face to face.” Anna reached forward and pulled at the straps that held the mask in place, that obscured his face from view. She managed to tear it off, and for a moment she remembered Carol, and how she had destroyed her face in the wake of her death. This was an inversion. Before Harry’s death, she would finally give him back his public face.

She tossed the mask across the floor before she stopped and looked him in the eye. It was a shock. Harry was older than she had realised. Quite a lot older. If she had thought about it more, she might have realised it, but she never had. Without a real face, Harry Stewart had always been a sort of ageless, mythic figure. An urban legend. Less of a person. Now, Anna saw that, underneath his carefully constructed outer image, he was just an old man, like any other. Worse. She thought of Jim Green, who worked up in the forest, and who must be a similar age. Despite his age, he was healthy and strong, and always busy with his work. In contrast, Harry looked sallow and ill, with thin skin, like a forgotten library book. Maybe he did need Michael, Anna realised. More than he would probably admit. It was obvious he needed someone to look after him. So that, more than any of the other reasons that Michael had ever tried to tell her, was probably why Harry had brought him here. To keep him alive. Unfortunately for Harry, that urge had fatally backfired on him.

“So, this is you, then,” Anna said. “You don’t look so good.”

“I have to confess, I have felt better,” Harry said spitefully. Anna smirked. Even now, it seemed he did not want to admit he was losing.

“Do you even love him?” she asked suddenly. There was only so much time for questions.

“You think I don’t love Michael?” Harry repeated, without answering.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Anna replied. “I think if you loved him, you’d tell him. You wouldn’t force him to jump through all these hoops all the time, you’d just, like… say it.” Harry chuckled weakly to himself again, refusing to act like his time was running out.

“I wonder what he’s said to you,” Harry murmured, essentially ignoring her. “He can be so neurotic and insecure. I can’t say I relate to that. I was never that way.”

“No, you weren’t!” Anna snapped, lifting the knife up to his face once more, to remind him it was there. “You were never gonna spend too long worrying over a problem, right? You’d rather just… walk out!”

“I see he told you about my family,” Harry said. “Then, you know everything.”

“I know the sheriff is your son,” Anna said. “I know you left him when he was a kid.”

“I did do that,” Harry mused. “I regret it often, but what’s done is done. I could not bear to live with his mother anymore, you see. Not when she made it clear she would never be happy, with or without me. With or without our son.”

“What’s done is done?!” Anna shouted. It didn’t matter if she raised her voice. There was no-one to hear her. “Do you know what the sher– what George Woodman is like, because of you? Do you have any idea the things he does to people?” She paused for a second, then, raising her voice again, added, “Do you have any idea what he did to _me_?!”

“Ah, so this is not just about Michael,” Harry said, amused, with a hint of success. “This is about you as well, Anna. Well, tell me. Tell me what my first son did to you, that only my second son could fix.”

“Please!” Anna snarled. “ _I’m_ the one fixing it. I’m the one fixing everything! And you… you are going to lose!”

“I have no doubt now that I won’t survive the night,” Harry said simply. “But that does not mean I am going to lose.”

“Oh yeah?” Anna snarled. “Um, do you think you might want to rethink that position?”

“He won’t forgive you,” Harry laughed cruelly. Anna tightened her grip around the knife handle. This was not what she wanted to hear. “Michael is a loyal boy, and certainly he will know what you’ve done, presumably why, and then… he will never forgive you.”

“He will forgive me. He’ll realise this is what’s best. We don’t have secrets anymore,” Anna spat.

“The fact that you convinced him to support you in covering up those first two murders was impressive,” Harry went on darkly. “But, Anna, my dear, you are not unique in that aspect. Michael is a fragile boy, and if I asked him to do the same tomorrow, he would jump at the chance. He will do anything for people he wants to love him. Surely you have not been so foolish as to not notice that.”

“He’s with me because he knows this is what we have to do,” Anna countered, but Harry laughed it off. He was convincing when he spoke, she realised. Even her faith was shaking.

“If I confronted him,” Harry began. “If I told him he was forbidden to see you again, that it would impress me if he cut you off, then have no doubt that he would do it at once. Michael is as loyal to me as it is possible to be. He is so like that wooden bird he carries with him everywhere.” Harry paused, smiling meanly before he stressed the final words. “He is completely blind.”

“And in both cases, it’s your fault,” Anna finished for him. Harry laughed. She thought he attempted to shrug his shoulders, but it was impossible in his current state. “Why did you do that to him?” she asked. “With the bird. You could have fixed the eyes and let him feel like you cared about him, but you didn’t. Why?”

“So he would not get complacent,” Harry said. “I want him to keep needing more. The rest of my family have all left me. Michael does not get to leave me as well.”

“They didn’t leave you, you left them,” Anna hissed. “It’s your fault!”

“As interesting as this conversation is, I am losing blood,” Harry said. “And you have failed to make any kind of point. So, either leave, ideally after handing me a telephone, or finish what you came here to do.” Anna was stunned by his attitude. He was so desperate to win, that he was really going to goad her into killing him before he would ask for help. She remembered Carol’s vague defiance at the end, but it was nothing compared to this.

“Fine,” Anna said. “I will.” She drew back the knife in her hand and planted it in Harry’s other shoulder. The wound was deeper than before, but still superficial. Harry could not pretend it didn’t hurt him, but his reaction was still muted compared to what Anna would have expected. He was trying his hardest to die with dignity. No, to win. To beat her. Anna bit hard into her bottom lip. He was beating her, she thought.

Anna stuck the third knife into his ribs, the final one into his stomach. The last one bled the most, although it was still a slow process. She had not punctured anything particularly important. Harry twitched and hummed in pain, but kept his gaze on her most of the time, still unwilling to yield.

She remembered the thought she had had up at the observation deck, and went off to Michael’s bedroom. Harry could not move, and he certainly couldn’t call for help. She saw no problem in leaving him. The man needed a moment to gather his thoughts, anyway. The sword case was under the bed, just as Michael had told her it would be. She drew it out and marvelled at the sharp blade. He must take good care of it. But then, of course he did. It was a gift from Harry. She shoved the case back under the bed, and held the sword at her side, stalking back through to the dining hall and feeling, properly for a moment, like the real Raincoat Killer.

“You’re going to die,” she said, when she was facing him once again. “And there’s nothing you want to say? At all?”

“You… heh, ah. You want my last words?” Harry asked, voice shaking. He had stopped bothering to hold his wounds by now. There was no preventing the bleeding.

“No, I don’t care about your last words,” Anna said coldly. “But Michael will. So, you can tell me now if you have anything to say to him.” Harry stared at the sword in her hand, recognising it, but neglecting to comment on what her choice of weapon meant.

“How good you must think you are, Anna,” Harry said. “How bold and powerful, and right. Do you think the world will be a better place when I am dead?”

“Don’t waste this chance!” Anna shouted. “You have one chance. Just one chance, to make up for… for some of it! Say something to make it better!”

“George should know,” Harry said, shifting the topic and catching Anna by surprise. “He should know who he is. Perhaps someone will tell him. You could tell him.”

“George is the one you care about?” Anna asked. Despite herself, it was a shock.

“I knew what his mother was, I was wrong to leave him,” Harry went on, voice faltering with a mixture of blood loss and emotion. “But I was guilty. I should have gone to him once she died, at least. I should have told him then.” He paused to suck in a painful breath. “I found out later that he was fifteen when she died. Just fifteen! And he took care of himself, for all this time.”

“Stop it!” Anna shouted, tapping the sword against the floor, shaking her head fiercely. “He’s awful! He doesn’t deserve your sympathy, Michael does! Michael is the one! _Michael_!”

“I let my son turn out like that…” Harry breathed. “Like his mother. He was only fifteen when she died. And Michael was fifteen when I met him… but they were so different already, at that age.”

“Yes, they are different!” Anna insisted frantically. Harry was very short on time. If he was going to do anything, any final gesture for Michael’s sake, it had to be now. “It’s good that they’re different!”

“Michael is not strong enough to survive when I am gone,” Harry said sharply. “I’ve spoiled him. I wasted him. He was meant to take over everything for me, one day, and how can he do that now? He is not prepared.”

“Stop it!” Anna screamed again, emptying her lungs in a single angry burst. As she caught her breath, she looked at Harry, who was not looking back at her, his eyes barely focusing on anything. She was out of time. “All you had to do was say sorry!” she shouted, advancing. “All you had to do was admit you were wrong, so I could put it to rest! All he wants is to know you love him!”

“Perhaps if tonight… had not happened,” Harry murmured. “If you had not got in the way. Then we… I… we could have reached that point. But how can you expect that to happen now?” Suddenly, he fixed her with a stare so strong, she stopped dead in her tracks. “You cannot expect me to resolve it now, after what you have done.”

“Fine!” Anna shouted. “I could tell him you did anyway, if I want. He won’t even know.”

“He will know,” Harry said firmly, saving the last of his strength to add force to the words. “He will always know that you, Anna, prevented him from getting the only thing he wanted. That without you, his life would have progressed the way it was supposed to. He will always know that you stopped me from accepting him as my son.”

“And you will know that that’s why you have to die,” Anna hissed. She reached into the pocket of her raincoat and pulled out a handful of the red seeds she had stashed away for this moment. As Harry saw them, his eyes flickered with recognition, and his face fell. Anna took a sick pleasure in that. She knew the seeds had about as many negative connotations for Harry as they did for her.

“I had to be hard on him, so that he would learn to be strong. The same way I learned,” Harry said quickly, finally willing to part with his last words. “I did care for him, and I would have accepted him in time. But you spoiled it! You ruined everything!” Anna splayed her palm and pushed the handful of seeds under Harry’s nose so that he could have a good look at them in his final moments of life. “He will never forgive you, Anna,” Harry spat. “And thanks to you, he will never be my son!”

That was enough. Anna shoved the seeds into his mouth, forcing his jaw shut when his first instinct was to spit them out. She made sure he swallowed, although it was obvious that his mouth was still overflowing with the things. She may have been too zealous in her preparations. She had brought dozens and dozens of red seeds, just for him.

“Like father like son,” Anna breathed. “But I’m the Raincoat Killer this time. Keep quiet, Harry. You can’t talk while you die. That’s the rule.” She needn’t have bothered. Even without a hand on his mouth, Harry was in no position to say another word. Anna had wasted too much time already. She gripped the katana in both hands, and, once again finding herself stronger than she had been, stronger than she realised, she sent it through his chest, through his spine, and through the back of his chair. Then she stepped away, panting.

“God!” she snapped, stamping her foot. “You could have said something nice… why did you have to… ugh!” She shook her head, trying to get her breathing under control. “No, it’s better this way,” she told herself. “No regret. I was right. Michael will know that, too. He will.”

Anna reached into the raincoat pocket for the final thing she had brought with her. The third of their notes. She unfolded it and read it aloud to herself, reminding herself of why she was here.

“The Return of the Raincoat Killer. On rainy nights. They ate the seeds. They laugh at him. They underestimate his glory.” She sighed. Everyone had underestimated her. Carol, George, Harry, and Agent York especially. They were all wrong. Tonight had been a real tribute to the spirit of the Raincoat Killer, she felt. Taking out one of the final survivors of that horror, using the very same weapon that had done so much damage generations ago. Those red seeds. The Raincoat Killer had returned for Harry Stewart at last.

Anna put the note into the front pocket of Harry’s jacket where it was bound to be found when the police arrived. Which, she had to remind herself, would be soon. She had no time to wipe anything off or move the body. She was just glad she hadn’t taken off her gloves at any point.

“Gotta go,” Anna muttered, pulling up the hood of her coat and turning away from Harry’s silent body. She hoped Michael was all right. He had been with the police for quite some time, and he was bound to hate every moment of the interrogation. But he was stronger than Harry had given him credit for, and he would survive.

She hurried from the house, shutting the side door behind her and racing over to her car. It was hers now, she thought. Harry wasn’t going to ask for it back. Her heart beat fast during the drive back to her house. At any moment, she expected to catch sight of a police cruiser in the mirror and hear the sirens demanding that she pull over. She could not help but screw her eyes shut for a second whenever she passed a car on the road. If she and Agent York crossed paths coming and going from the crime scene, she didn’t notice. When the car was parked back at Brownie Street where it always stayed, Anna took a breath. She hurried home, glad that Sallie was gone and sneaking back up to her bedroom was unnecessary. She threw the coat and the gloves into the washing machine the second she was inside and turned it on. There was no reason to take risks.

When everything was done, Anna went upstairs and collapsed on her bed. She felt tired. With every murder, it seemed as if she had less time to prepare. There had been so much waiting and planning with Quint. Carol had been a good opportunity that she had had to take, but it was still possible to stop and breathe. But this one had really been sprung on her. She couldn’t help but think Forrest Kaysen was involved. Maybe he liked watching her squirm. Or succeed.

“Thanks, I guess,” Anna said aloud, if he could hear. She suspected there was a chance he might. She rolled over onto her side. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Wait, and see how Michael handled the latest twist in their story.


	59. A Happy Ending

Chapter Fifty-Nine. [ A Happy Ending ]

There was no point in Anna calling Michael. If he was even still at the house. She doubted he would be allowed to hang around the crime scene, once the police arrived. So, she ended up waiting all night with no word. Despite what he had said when they last spoke, he did not call. It almost made Anna worry that he had been arrested, somehow, but she knew there was no way Agent York could blame him for Harry’s murder. They had been together when it happened. Michael had to be in the clear.

Anna awoke the next morning, having slept in. With no work to go to, and school over, her schedule had become more of a mess. When she went downstairs, her mother was there already, sitting at the table. Anna approached with caution.

“Mom?” she said. Sallie looked over and gave her a weak smile.

“Anna,” she said. “Come and sit down.” Anna did as she was asked, pulling up a seat at the table. “There’s been another murder, sweetheart,” Sallie told her gently.

“Oh no… who was it?” Anna asked, although in her heart she was bored of this performance. She was willing to play a role in front of the FBI agent, but not her mother too. “Did I know them?”

“Not really, Anna,” Sallie said. “You remember Harry Stewart, from your work?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Anna said flatly. “That’s sad.”

“I know it is, sweetheart,” Sallie said. “And listen, Anna… about your work at the diner. Maybe I overreacted a little. I just thought that this monster was hunting down teenagers, but it seems that’s not the case. If you’re careful, you got to swear you’ll be careful, then maybe you can go back.”

“Go back to work?” Anna gasped. She had not seen this coming, and she was glad. Finally, a little freedom. “Oh my god, mom, thanks!”

“If you’re careful,” Sallie stressed. “I feel like I’ve been treating you like a kid, and you’re an adult now, Anna. You graduated and I’m proud of you for that. We really gotta plan a trip soon, just the two of us, what do you say?”

“That’ll be great, mom,” Anna said. She thought for a moment, then leant over to give her mother a quick hug. She wondered what had brought on this change of heart.

“Yeah,” Sallie said, smiling. “Richard and I were talking last night, about how life can be short, and things, these terrible things, just happen. I really think it’s time we start pulling together as a family.”

“You mean… the three of us, as a family?” Anna asked. She had not realised that Richard and her mother were quite that serious yet. She knew it shouldn’t surprise her.

“Yeah, the three of us,” Sallie agreed. “And speaking of that, Anna, we want you to come out with us tonight. So the three of us can talk together. It’s been hard after Quint. It’ll be good for Richard to see you. So you’ll come, yes?”

“Sure, I will,” Anna agreed, though she could not help but feel that Sallie letting her go back to work at the diner was a concession to get her to act the perfect daughter role in front of Richard. She supposed it was probably the least she could do for him, after murdering his son. Anna got up from her seat.

“I don’t want you out by yourself!” Sallie insisted. “It’s still dangerous.”

“I won’t be,” Anna said. “I might go and see Becky later… that’s all.”

“All right, but come back in time for us to get to the Swery 65 around opening,” Sallie said. Just then, the phone rang, and Anna jumped.

“Sure, mom, sure!” she said in a hurry, heading for the stairs. “I bet that’s Becky, I’ll go answer it in my room, bye!” Sallie tried to shout something else after her, but Anna was already reaching her bedroom door. A moment later she was slamming down onto the bed and lifting the receiver to her ear. She breathed down the phone line, waiting.

“I think...” came the voice, weak and sad. “I think we have to… I cannot see you after this.”

“Michael, please,” Anna whispered. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

“How can I?” he said. “How long were you planning it? All the time we were together, since you started this? You knew it would… end this way.”

“Michael, please, please, let me see you,” Anna pleaded. “Where are you? I’ll come to you. Please. If we can talk, I know it’ll be okay.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Michael said roughly. “I want it to be over, and it’s too late. I’m far too deep into this. There’s no way out.”

“Let me come to you,” Anna begged again. “Just tell me where you are!” She waited while he considered it. If he really meant this, would he tell the police, she wondered? He might. Eventually though, he relented, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“At the hotel,” he said sourly. “Come to the back door. It’s room thirty-seven. Hurry, or I might change my mind.”

“I will,” Anna promised, and the line went dead. She got dressed in a hurry and ran down the stairs, shouting over her shoulder that she was going to see Becky after all. The FBI agent was staying in the hotel as well, she thought. If they crossed paths this morning, things might take an interesting turn.

♦ ♦ ♦

Parking at the hotel seemed risky, but Anna noticed that the police cruiser was nowhere to be seen. And she was rushing. When she climbed out of the car, she went straight for the back entrance to the hotel, avoiding the front of the building, and found her way to the right hotel room. She rapped on the door and waited. Michael did not feel the need to rush to answer. He came to the door several minutes later, while Anna fretted that someone would walk by at any moment. When he did appear, he was not like Anna had ever seen him. It reminded her of Becky, after Quint’s death. Even though it was late morning, he had not yet got dressed, and was still wearing pyjamas. He had not combed his hair, and his bangs hung limply over one eye. He stepped back from the door and she followed him in, shutting it behind them.

“Wow,” Anna said quietly. “You seem…”

“Bereaved, is the word you want,” Michael said, and sat heavily on the sofa, sliding down until he was lying on his back. He stuck his feet up on the arm, and Anna was forced to remain standing.

“Uh. All right,” she said. Michael looked over at her blankly.

“Tell me, then,” he said. “Tell me what it was like. Did you enjoy it?”

“Michael! No!” Anna insisted. “I didn’t enjoy any of them, that is so not the point of it.” He continued to stare through her, and she sighed. This was never going to be easy. “It was the right thing to do.”

“If you believed that, then you would have managed to convince me, instead of going ahead and killing my father behind my back,” Michael said. “At first, I thought it had to be someone else. I just didn’t think you could do that to me. Then, the FBI agent read your note. And I knew.”

“You knew when you saw it,” Anna muttered. “You probably knew before.”

“No, I did not!” Michael snapped. “I could never have expected you would do this to me!”

“Well who else, Michael?” Anna cried out. “You knew from the beginning it would be four! Who did you think it would be?”

“I suppose I didn’t,” he said. “I never thought about it.”

“I didn’t… try to hide it,” Anna sighed. “And it’s done. It’s done, and now it’s just the two of us. We have to be there for each other.”

“Tell me what happened,” Michael insisted, glaring at her. “I want you to tell me how it happened. Because I saw it, Anna, and it was brutal. It was horrific. So tell me, please, what you did.” Anna hesitated, feeling tired. Surely it would be better if he didn’t know. If he didn’t make her rehash every element of that night. He probably knew that as well as she did, and that was why he was asking her to tell him. To punish them both.

“I went there when I knew you’d be gone,” Anna began. “And this way… no-one can think you were involved.” Michael let out a single, bitter laugh, but she carried on. “I tried to talk to him first. Like, about you. But he didn’t want to talk to me.”

“Because you had a knife at his throat,” Michael added.

“No, before that!” Anna insisted. “He didn’t care at all. He said he already knew you had been seeing someone in secret. I guess we weren’t exactly subtle. He basically just laughed me off, so… well, when I realised he wasn’t going to talk, I did… I stabbed him. Not to death, just… in the shoulder.”

“I saw it,” Michael said. “And then what?”

“Then he knew who I was,” Anna said. “He called me a monster. And like yeah, sure, I don’t blame him for saying that then. But I still wanted to make him talk, and he just… he wouldn’t talk about you. I asked if he loved you, and he refused to answer.”

“Don’t, Anna,” Michael said softly. The fight had gone out of his voice.

“He said he could tell you to never see me again and you would,” Anna said firmly. “He called you blind. He said you were weak. And… he said he had to be hard on you so you’d learn to be strong.”

“Well, I clearly never did!” Michael cried out. “So he was right about me, wasn’t he?”

“You can be strong now!” Anna shouted. Then she reconsidered her approach. This was never going to win him over. “You know what he did want to talk about?” she said. “George.”

“What?” Michael sighed, fixing her with a weary expression.

“He wanted to talk about how he let George down. How George deserved better. How he should have gone to George after his mother died.” Anna could see this was getting through to Michael, whose eyes widened sadly with every word. “He told me George’s mother died when he was fifteen. Like you were, when he adopted you, right? That was on purpose.”

“Anna, no,” Michael moaned. “Please… don’t.”

“It was all on purpose, Michael,” Anna breathed. “And George was the person he was calling out for before he died. He was the one he felt he had to make it up to. I begged him. I begged him for you, Michael, to say something for you. And he did. Right at the very end, he finally gave me a message for you. Do you want to know what it was?”

“No… I don’t, I don’t want to hear it, it’s going to be a lie,” Michael moaned, covering his face with his hands and rocking back and forth.

“I promise I won’t lie to you,” Anna said softly. “I haven’t lied to you about any of this, since I started. I told you when I killed Quint. I told you I was going to kill Carol. And I’ve been honest about this, too.” Michael continued to rock himself, hiding his face. He had asked, she thought to herself. He had asked to know what had happened. “His last words, after I begged him to say he loved you, so you could just have that little thing? They were ‘he will never be my son’. That’s what he said at the very end. That’s _all_!”

Michael shook from the shoulders down, crying behind his hands. Anna hated it. She had no idea if it would have been better if she could tell him that Harry had called out for him at the end, and said he loved him, but he hadn’t. She had given him a chance to, and he had refused. Even if he did love Michael, even if he had been holding it back to spite her, it had not been important enough to him to say it before he died. But he would still have died, either way, so maybe it would have been harder after all. Anna eased Michael into a sitting position and sat beside him on the sofa, holding him until the tears dried up and he was silent.

“Maybe he would have… changed his mind in time,” Anna said. “I don’t know the future. He might have done. And I… I did take away that chance. I know that.” Michael wiped at his face and turned to her, sad green eyes staring through her to the wall.

“Yes,” he said. “You mean in the same way that Carol MacLaine might have apologised to you. That if you gave her enough time, she may eventually have realised how deeply she wronged you, and told you she was sorry. That you may one day have found peace, if you had been willing to wait for it.”

“Yes…” Anna said in a small voice. Michael nodded numbly.

“But, she didn’t,” he said. “When she knew she was going to die, she didn’t apologise to you, because it was more important to… to win.”

“Yes!” Anna said, feeling suddenly hopeful.

“And Mr. Ste… my father refused to tell you that he loved me even as he was dying,” Michael murmured, dropping his head. “Because he had to win, as well. Because he is more like George Woodman than he is like me. And I could have carried on for years, and never heard him say he accepted me, or he may have said it next week. I would have waited for it for any length of time, even if it was forever.”

“I… couldn’t watch that,” Anna said softly.

“I let you choose what you needed with Carol MacLaine,” Michael answered. “You should have let me choose with him. Even if I was wrong.” Anna placed a hand on his face, and turned it gently to face her own.

“Michael, let me ask you something,” she said. “If he had lived, and you were the one who died… would he be as upset as you are now?” Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t know the answer. Anna tried to find the words to comfort him, to convince him, but she struggled. Until at last, from somewhere deep within, she remembered what Forrest had told her the last time they had met.

“At times we must purge things from this world, because they should not exist. Even if it means losing someone that you love,” she repeated gently. Michael blinked at her. He lifted a hand slowly and brushed the hair from his eyes. Then, in such a subtle way that it was hard to be sure, he nodded.

“The people we love can be cruel,” he whispered. “And cruelty… is something we don’t deserve.”

“We deserve better,” Anna reminded him. “After everything we’ve been through.” Michael nodded again. Anna kissed his cheek. Then his lips.

“I still think… in time,” he said. “I think he would have realised I was the person he wanted me to be. Do… do you, Anna?”

“Maybe,” she said. She wanted him to be able to believe it. It would help. “I think he wanted you to be strong. And doing this with me… proves that you are. It proves you won’t take any more of him treating you like that. That makes you strong. So, I think, now… you’re exactly who he wanted you to be. You stood up to him.”

“But I didn’t even know this is what you were going to do,” Michael insisted weakly.

“Yeah, you did,” Anna murmured. “You know you did.” Michael did not reply. It was only for him to know, whether he had really seen his father’s murder coming or not. It could be his secret forever. He could tell himself whatever he wanted. He leaned in to kiss her, and Anna felt warm at the realisation that it was resolved for the better. She was forgiven. They spent a while together, and afterwards Anna decided to brave the question she’d been saving.

“Did the FBI agent bring you here?” she asked. “Like… after.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “He drove me here and paid for the room. It was actually quite good of him. And the deputy sheriff… Miss. Emily Wyatt. She was very kind to me too.”

“So long as we don’t have to have them over to dinner, I’m glad they were nice to you,” Anna joked.

“George Woodman was less kind,” Michael continued. “Now that he knows who his father is.”

“You told him?” Anna gasped. She had not planned on carrying out Harry’s dying wish for his son to learn who his father had been. Harry really would be proud of Michael today.

“He overheard,” Michael said, shrugging. “He was… aggressive. I hope it’s the last time I have to see him. I imagine he has some mind to revenge against me. Because I was the one our father… kept.”

“Jealous much,” Anna breathed. “Now you know how I felt. He’s so scary.”

“He is an imposing man,” Michael said, understating the truth. “Now, Anna. Much as I hate to rush you away and… I can’t say I look forward to being alone, I am worried that Mr. Francis York Morgan might return to check on me some time today. I can only be thankful he didn’t try and force me to eat breakfast with him.”

“That would be awkward,” Anna agreed. “And yeah, I need to go too. I said I was seeing Becky, and if my mom goes looking for me it’s gonna be tricky to explain. Plus, we’re having drinks with Richard Dunn tonight… as a family.”

“So your mother has found an upside to the situation,” Michael scoffed. He was just as unimpressed as Anna had been by the news.

“She moves fast,” Anna sighed. “Shame he doesn’t know that Quint and I would have been shitty step-siblings. Whatever, though, if she’s happy, maybe she’ll back off me, right? More freedom for Anna! She might even stop trying to keep me from getting my own place.”

“Your own…?” Michael asked in alarm. “Are you still planning on moving to Seattle?”

“I didn’t think about it much lately,” she admitted. “But I won’t go anywhere without you. I owe you too much.”

“Yes, you do!” Michael agreed at once. “It really is the least you can do not to abandon me now!”

“Hey, don’t worry. It’s just the two of us now. And it’s going to be perfect, I promise.” Anna kissed him goodbye and went for the door. When she was outside, she found herself skipping a little. It really was beginning to feel like it would all work out. She was getting close to the happy ending.

♦ ♦ ♦

Anna had arranged to return to work at the diner the next day. It would be good to get back into her routine, for now. Now that things were starting to reach the climax. Walking back into the place gave her a sense of relief, and she had to admit she had missed it. Especially now that Harry Stewart would not be coming back.

She learned from Olivia that someone had been arrested. Apparently, Agent York believed he had found the Raincoat Killer. Anna’s heart raced as she asked who it was, and Olivia sighed sadly as she told her that it was Diane Ames. When Olivia walked away, Anna was left to digest the news by herself. Diane, Becky’s sister. Diane, the Raincoat Killer. It was wrong. Agent York was wrong. But he had arrested her. He must think he had caught the right person.

Anna thought it through in her head. She could see someone thinking that Diane would kill Quint and Carol to protect Becky. She would never have done so, but an outsider might think she was capable of it. Harry didn’t fit the pattern, unless there was something Anna was missing. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Diane was exactly the kind of person who screamed murderess. She was shadowy and strange and unfriendly. It fitted. So long as you couldn’t see the extra pieces left in the jigsaw box.

The rest of her morning was completely relaxed. Even when Agent York appeared, and asked her the questions she had once dreaded as the key to unlock her cover, about the sheriff and Carol and their secret game, she was barely worried. It was over. It was almost over. Sure, she was going to have to be more careful when it came time to pay the final token, she thought. But maybe that one could look like an accident. Maybe the FBI would leave Greenvale, now that they had their woman, and she could wait. It was all going just right. The happy ending was in sight.

Michael came into the diner shortly after Agent York. Anna was happy to see that he was in a good mood. He must have spent the evening thinking everything over, and come to the same conclusion as she had. That they were making the right decisions. It was all she could do not to rush into his arms there in the diner, but she knew they were not quite done yet. When she collected his plate at the end of lunch, she did manage to whisper to him to go and wait for her at her house. Her shift ended soon.

♦ ♦ ♦

“But a part of me still can’t believe he hasn’t realised I’m the killer yet.”

It felt like forever ago. Forever since Anna had just been a normal person, before she got involved with Forrest Kaysen. Before she had killed. It was hard to believe she was standing in her bedroom, arms tossed around Michael’s shoulders, knowing the end was close. She kissed him on the nose and let go, walking over to the window.

“The weather’s getting bad,” she said. “I bet it’s gonna rain.”

“I overheard that the case is solved,” Michael said. “Or, that Ms. Diane Ames is in prison, at least. How quickly do you think the FBI agent is going to leave town after this?”

“Hopefully right away,” Anna said. “It’s weird having him be all kinds of nice to me. Like, please. You would hit yourself if you knew, Agent York.”

“He does seem to be a good man. It’s a shame we’re on different sides,” Michael sighed softly. “But, hopefully, he will never realise that.”

“You said it,” Anna agreed. “Let’s go downstairs. I want something to eat.” The two of them did, and a few minutes later Anna had her head in the fridge. Her mother had not been shopping.

“Anna,” Michael said, and she looked up. “I have something to say.”

“Okay…?” Anna said uncertainly. Normally that sort of sentence led somewhere bad. People rarely prefaced good news.

“I am not completely at peace yet with what you did to my father,” he said carefully. “But I understand why you did it, and… I’m thankful that you wanted to protect me. I asked myself if I could have done the same thing for you. That is, if I could have killed Carol MacLaine if our roles were reversed. I’m not sure I could have done. I don’t know if that is a bad thing. I think it is best that you are willing to make those choices, and I am not. Because we can balance each other. Action, and inaction. Never too much of one at the expense of the other.” He lowered his voice. “Harry Stewart’s greatest failing in life was inaction. It cost him everything. This week, it has cost him his life. But George Woodman’s greatest sin is action. He acts at the expense of everyone but himself. He takes with no concern for others. I hope that, together, we can both avoid the traps that lie in wait for us.”

“Thank you,” Anna said softly. “Thank you, Michael. And you’re totally right. Totally. That’s why I need you. And you need me. It’s why everything’s going to be okay, okay?”

“I think… it actually might,” Michael agreed, with a genuine smile.

“Michael, I love you,” Anna said. “So much.”

“I love you, too,” he said. “Beyond expression.” Anna ducked back into the fridge so that she could wipe at her suddenly teary face without feeling embarrassed. She was just reaching for an apple when Michael spoke.

“It was Diane Ames that was arrested, was it not?” he asked. Anna looked to see he was standing by the window, peering out.

“Yeah?” she said, walking over. “Why?” He moved to the side so she could see out. There, at the end of the road, was Diane. She was alone. As Anna watched, she stretched her arms high above her head and smiled, then walked away at a slow pace. It was not the behaviour of a woman who knew she was under arrest for murder.

“Why is she outside?” Michael wondered aloud, but Anna was struggling to catch her breath. Suddenly, the world was crashing down around her, disappearing beneath her feet. Everything she had felt today, all the hopeful thoughts, were crushed. The happy ending that she had felt certain was already settling into her hands had vanished. Time had run out. She had to act now. Right now, if there was any chance of rescuing it. Of rescuing them.

“He knows,” Anna breathed, and Michael turned sharply to face her. He knew exactly what she meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings us up to date. Back to York for the next chapter, although I hope you enjoyed this narrative diversion. Getting to see everything from the other side offers a new perspective, after all.


	60. The Truth

Chapter Sixty. [ The Truth ]

Emily stared at York with her mouth slightly open. He watched her face, waiting for the information to sink in for a second. He knew she had had her doubts when he had arrested Diane, and she had been right. This time, he was certain, and he wanted her to believe him from the moment he said it.

“Who?!” Emily shouted. She certainly sounded eager to listen.

“I was at the diner,” York explained. “I saw them together and it suddenly made sense. The motive. The means. It all fit together. It was one of those moments of clarity.”

“York!” Emily cried out, smacking him on the arm. “Who is it? Who is the Raincoat Killer?”

“It’s Anna Graham,” York said. “Anna Graham.”

“Anna…?” Emily said, blinking in disbelief, struggling to deal with the words that did not fit. “Anna was… with you! When we found Carol. Wasn’t she? York, wasn’t she with you? How could it be her?” That was the crux of it, York thought. Even if he had suspected her back then, which he never had, he would surely have dismissed those thoughts when the second murder seemingly took place while she was in the conference room with him and George. That was why what he had seen at the diner was so important.

“She had help,” York explained. “From… Michael Tillotson.”

“Are you serious, York?” Emily scoffed. “No. That doesn’t make sense.”

“They’re friendly,” York said. “Just now, at the diner, I saw them. Believe me, Emily, there was no hiding the way they looked at each other. And even if they’re just friends, why didn’t Michael mention her when we were talking to him about people he could go to?” York shook his head, muttering. “It’s exactly like Thomas and Ushah.”

“Thomas and Ushah?” Emily laughed. “Are you being serious?”

“Ah, well, he did ask me not to tell you…” York coughed. It was unfortunate, but it had slipped out. Hopefully Thomas would be able to forgive him for the mistake. It had been in the heat of the moment. “Or anyone,” York added. “But this is the truth, Emily. I’m completely sure.”

“Okay, but… why?” Emily asked. York knew she wanted to believe him. It did seem quite far-fetched without a thorough explanation, even he had to admit that.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” York said. “With Quint. Anna and Quint were friends. He was dating her best friend. I don’t know all the ins and outs of being a teenager anymore, but I’m sure there has to be a motive in there somewhere. Don’t forget, Quint and Becky were planning on getting married. It’s possible Anna didn’t think that was such a good idea. I was willing to believe that Diane would kill him for her sister’s sake, I think it’s just as likely that Becky’s best friend would do the same.” Emily nodded slightly at the explanation.

“Sure, I suppose that makes sense,” she agreed. York smiled. He carried on.

“Next up is Carol,” he said. “Anna and Carol… that was clearly a sticky mess. We both know that. Anna’s made it clear that her feelings for Carol went beyond friendship, and Becky has been kind enough to tell us that Carol was instrumental in George’s secret club, as she called it. Anna admitted that Becky got hurt down there, but I’d be willing to bet that she was a victim too. I don’t think it’s hard to imagine that Anna might bear a grudge against Carol for everything she involved them in.”

“No, I suppose not,” Emily admitted. “But she was still with you at the time.”

“I know, which brings us to the third murder,” York said. “Harry Stewart. No wonder it didn’t fit with the others. Quint, Carol, and Harry? That isn’t the pattern you would predict. Harry has nothing to do with the first two victims. He was a shut-in. The only person he ever really interacted with is Michael.”

“Who was with you when Harry was killed,” Emily reminded him, lifting her eyebrows. “Which is why we didn’t even consider that he did it.”

“No, and he couldn’t have killed Harry,” York agreed. “But someone who cared about him could have done. Michael denied that there was anyone else in his life, and I no longer believe him. There is. Someone whose best friend’s father was abusive. Whose own mother is overbearing and controlling. Whose crush was being manipulated by an older man. Is it really a stretch to imagine that when Anna looked at Harry, those are the reflections she saw?”

“No, it isn’t,” Emily agreed delicately. “But you saw how Michael acted when you found Harry. That wasn’t fake. He was devastated.”

“Yes, Emily, I agree,” York said, tapping his index finger against the table. “I don’t think he knew that was part of the plan. I don’t see Michael as the mastermind type, do you?”

“No,” Emily admitted. “Not at all.”

“But he is the type to be easily manipulated,” York pressed. “Especially by that one thing we all crave, Emily. Love.”

“And you think Anna convinced him to help stage Carol’s murder, so she would look innocent?” Emily asked. York nodded, starting to grin. He always did when he felt he was close to the truth.

“Do you remember what Sigourney told us?” York asked her. “She said the person she saw running away after dumping Carol’s body was a ‘slip of a thing’. I didn’t think about it much before, but I don’t think Diane, at six foot, fits that description. And Michael does.”

“So he moved the body,” Emily sighed, closing her eyes. She was beginning to realise that York was right. “But, no, that still won’t work. Becky argued with Carol that morning, at eight.”

“Did she?” York asked. “Because I think that Becky, if her best friend asked for a favour, might be willing to lie. She hasn’t exactly done her best to be honest and open with us, Emily.”

“Shit,” Emily said quietly. “You’re right. Anna Graham… I can’t believe it. She’s always seemed so sweet and… innocent. I thought she was a victim.”

“A lot of people are,” York said, looking off into space. Like George, he thought. And Carol. Weren’t they both victims, despite what they had done? And if he was right, Anna was their victim, too. That was why she had started this. He couldn’t agree with her choice of revenge.

“Then it’s simple,” Emily said. “If Becky lied about arguing with Carol the morning she died, we know Anna could have killed her. So we have to go and talk to Becky.”

“We do, Emily,” York agreed. “But first, I think we owe Diane an apology.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Down in the cells, York and Emily found Diane lounging on the bed of her cell, staring idly up at the ceiling. She may as well be on a beach, York thought. When she noticed them, she glanced over, and slowly righted herself.

“Agent,” she said. “I take it you discovered Carol MacLaine’s secret, and have come, after quite the delay, to release me.”

“Let me ask you a question, Diane,” York said. “If you knew what happened to your sister, why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you help her?”

“Help her how?” Diane asked coldly, scowling. “It had already happened before I knew it was going to. I could not protect Becky, if I had wanted to, and more importantly if she had let me. We have no parents, Agent, so Becky treats me a lot like one. When we find time to see each other. That means she keeps secrets from me. We’re not close like sisters often are. We don’t share these things.”

“Did Becky tell you about it?” York asked. “Or did George?” Diane stared at him for several empty seconds, willing the question away.

“That is not your business,” she said at last. York smiled slightly to himself. After all the running around and jumping through hoops Diane had put him through, he was always happy to rile her in return. He found himself reaching for a cigarette, taking his time.

“Diane,” he said. “We’re going to let you go.” To his surprise, she laughed at him.

“Isn’t that what you want?” Emily joined in, with mild exasperation. She was not hiding it well, York thought. She probably had far more pressing thoughts in her head, as he did. Current revelations made Diane’s reaction seem petty in comparison. “We know you’re not the killer, Diane.”

“I know that, too,” Diane laughed. “You did not believe me when I said it before.” She suddenly fixed York with an intense stare. “Will you be arresting Becky next?” she asked.

“No,” York replied. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.” Diane kept her gaze on him for a few seconds more, then looked back at the ceiling. York wondered for the first time if that was what Diane had thought all along, that her sister was the killer. It would explain a lot of her attitude. If that was what she thought, he might have been too hard on her.

“I assume you know who is,” Diane said. “I suppose I wish you good luck in finishing your investigation at last, Agent.”

“I appreciate that, Diane. Though I don’t think you’ve ever wished me well before,” York offered sarcastically. Diane looked back at him and smirked.

“No,” she agreed. “But it did amuse me how much your presence irritated George.” She got up from the bed and walked towards the cell door. Emily took out the key and unlocked it, and Diane stepped through, out of her cell, back into freedom. Prison had not daunted her at all, York thought. She was as self-assured as ever. A tower of strength in dark stockings.

“Goodbye, Diane,” York said. “You can see yourself out.”

“Always,” she said, and spun on her heel, walking slowly away, and eventually disappearing. Emily turned to York as soon as she was gone.

“Let’s go and see Becky,” she said. “And find out if you’re right.”

♦ ♦ ♦

On the drive over, York wondered what he would do if Anna was there when they arrived. It felt almost premature to arrest her. Although he was certain that he was right this time, he had to admit to himself that all he really had to go on currently was intuition. Hopefully, Becky’s confession would sort that out. If she was willing to tell them the truth.

Emily knocked hard on the door and York realised looking back at her that she was angry. The case had gone on too long for her, he knew, but it was more than that. Perhaps now that she finally had a real face to put to the murders, all her bitter frustration for the loss of her neighbours was coming out at once. She felt betrayed. He did as well, if he was being honest. He had liked Anna. He had trusted her, and wanted to protect her. If only he had known she didn’t need anyone. She was perfectly capable of protecting herself.

When Becky answered the door, she frowned. York knew it must feel a lot like they were badgering her, after their visit yesterday, but it was unavoidable. He put on a polite smile, nonetheless.

“I’m not going to talk about it,” she said firmly. York remembered their last conversation, about Carol’s club under the Galaxy of Terror. Unfortunately, he thought they finally knew all about it. And what it had all led to.

“No, Becky,” he sighed. “It’s not about that. Can we come in?”

“No…” Becky said. “You’re gonna ask me about it, and I don’t wanna say anything.”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Emily said firmly. “Let us in.” Becky glanced over at her and seemed to decide not to test Emily’s patience. She moved away from the door and, like so many other times, they followed her through to her bedroom, where she planted herself on the edge of the bed.

“What is it then?” Becky asked.

“It’s about the day that Carol died,” York said, and he saw the look of fear flash over Becky’s face. He had known he was right. He could not stop the faint smile from forming on his lips. “Do you know what we’ve come to ask you, Becky?” he asked. He might as well give her a chance to be honest.

“Uh, no,” she said too quickly. “Is this because I said I was glad she was dead? I just… I mean, it’s hard, okay, that’s all.”

“It isn’t that,” York began.

“Becky, you lied to us,” Emily interrupted. She was still angry, York felt. She needed this to be done. Becky’s face fell. “You told us that you saw Carol the morning she died,” Emily went on. “But that wasn’t true, was it? You didn’t see her that day at all, because she was already dead.”

“Already dead?” Becky cried. “No! No, I totally, I mean… what?”

“She had to have died before that point,” Emily pressured. “Do you know that already, Becky?” York had to admit that he was impressed. Emily was really tackling Becky. She would be useful at the FBI, he decided, flushing slightly.

“Just tell us, Becky. We already know,” York added, though he felt he was barely needed.

“That she’s alive…?” Becky said quietly. York and Emily exchanged a look.

“What?” he asked. Becky looked up at them with confusion.

“That Carol’s alive…” she repeated. “Isn’t that… the secret? She’s secretly alive?”

“Why do you think she’s alive?” York asked.

“Cause she… she’s… the killer,” Becky mumbled, losing confidence as she spoke. Emily shook her head. York had to admit, it was an interesting theory. Even if Becky hadn’t already been angry with Carol, the thought that she had killed her boyfriend must have contributed.

“Carol’s dead, Becky,” Emily said, slightly softer than before. “The Raincoat Killer murdered her. She was a victim, she’s not the killer, and she’s definitely not still alive.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Becky cried out. “I mean, it seemed weird at points, but… it has to be Carol. Who else could it be?”

“Becky,” York said carefully. “Why did you lie about seeing Carol that morning?” Becky looked at him, then down at the floor, tapping her legs against the edge of the bed. Things were probably starting to come together in her head. York did not envy her.

“I did fight with her,” Becky said quietly. “But it was the night before. She came to my house to start a fight, all that was true. I just said it was the morning.”

“But why did you lie?” Emily asked. Becky tilted her head onto her shoulder, trying to avoid the question, and the realisation that she felt coming.

“Anna… said it was a good idea,” she finally admitted. York glanced at Emily triumphantly, and saw her slightly shake her head.

“Why?” York questioned. Becky shrugged, heaving her shoulders defensively out and muttering a tiny sigh.

“I don’t know!” Becky moaned. “She told me it was smart because then she could say we talked, or that it would make Carol look like a liar. I didn’t think about it much because then it came out Carol… died, I guess… and all I thought was that Anna was right about her trying to make me look bad! I knew she was planning something, cause I thought… I thought she faked it! I thought she was alive. And I just, ugh, I just trust Anna! So I did what she said!”

“Becky,” York said, very levelly, very cautiously. He knew her reaction would not be good. “That’s not why Anna wanted you to lie. Anna wanted you to lie to protect herself.”

“From her mom finding out she was at my house that night, I know,” Becky said defensively.

“She was at your house? At the same time as Carol?” Emily asked. Becky nodded. Emily shook her head. It really did all come together, one piece at a time. More and more.

“Anna wanted you to lie to give her an alibi,” York went on. Becky stared at him, uncomprehending. “Because she is the Raincoat Killer,” he finished. Now Becky’s eyes widened, and she leant back on her bed, as if she could escape the words that way. Resist the truth.

“No way!” she snapped. “Stop it, that’s fucked up!”

“It’s true, Becky,” York said. “Anna is the Raincoat Killer. She killed Carol, and Quint –”

“Anna would never hurt Quint!” Becky shouted, overcome with anger. “Quint meant everything to me! She knew that, she would never… she just wouldn’t… Anna is not like that! She isn’t mean! She isn’t a killer! She’s… she’s just not.”

“Becky,” Emily said. “Do you know if Anna is dating anyone?” York was impressed again. The change of topic confused Becky, and she stammered over her answer for a moment. Emily knew what she was doing. The questions were in good hands. The answers would come.

“Does that even matter?” Becky blurted out. “You said she killed people!”

“Is she dating Michael Tillotson?” Emily asked, calmly.

“Yeah…” Becky mumbled. “Why? She can’t be in trouble for that. It doesn’t matter.” She tapped her legs again, harder, against the bed. York wondered if she was hurting herself. If she was doing it on purpose, trying to wake herself up. Make their questions go away.

“Michael moved Carol’s body the morning after her death, and put it in the lake,” Emily explained. Becky let out a small squeak that wanted to be a scream.

“So that’s why you think Anna did it? No, no way!” Becky shouted. “Look, he’s the one. He has to be! Anna wouldn’t even know, she thinks he’s the… the answer to all her problems, so she wouldn’t think about it. And he spent all his time before he met her alone, he would totally do it! He’s not normal. He wouldn’t even think it was wrong, probably, and I bet he hid it from Anna! Go and arrest him! He totally did it, he’s the killer, not Anna!” She seemed proud of her rant, York thought, looking at the nervous smile that crossed her face. She hoped she was right.

“Michael was with me during Harry Stewart’s murder,” York told her. “It would be impossible for him to be the killer.”

“You said Anna had an alibi,” Becky countered. “Maybe it’s the same. Maybe they lied about when his dad was killed, or something.”

“No, that isn’t possible,” York insisted gently. “I know this is hard, Becky. Even I have found it difficult to come to terms with. She just isn’t the sort of person I expected to do something like this. Anna doesn’t feel like a killer. She feels like a –”

“A victim?” Becky finished for him, scowling. “Anna is stronger than that, okay? So… she’s tougher than me. She stood up to Carol. She… she helped me, when everything… got really bad.” Becky wiped at her eyes. She was starting to cry, which meant, York thought sadly, she was starting to accept the truth. “She’s not like that,” Becky mumbled. “She’s my friend.”

“I’m very sorry, Becky,” York said. “I understand. It’s hard to accept.”

“But you have to accept it, Becky,” Emily added. “And help us stop her.”

“Stop her?” Becky asked. “Oh, yeah… cause obviously, if it’s Anna… that means there would be… someone else, too.”

“Another murder?” York asked. He had expected as much. It didn’t feel done, not yet, and he remembered the wording of the notes they had found at the crime scenes, suggesting that there would be more. “Who, Becky? Do you know who?”

“Are you sure it’s her?” Becky asked, evading the question. “I just don’t think… Anna couldn’t. She couldn’t do that.”

“We’re sure,” Emily said. “Who, Becky?”

“She wouldn’t kill Quint,” Becky said to herself, trying to prove it. “I loved him and Anna loves me, and that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen, because Anna cares about me, so she wouldn’t.”

“Becky, please,” York pressed.

“She’s my best friend, why would she hurt me?” Becky asked aloud. “Maybe Carol, after Carol made us go to her club and tried to mess with us, and I guess… Michael’s dad, she might. But not Quint. She couldn’t hurt Quint.”

“She did hurt him, Becky,” Emily insisted.

“She never hurt anyone,” Becky said. “Back at school, people used to gossip about her, and say nasty stuff, but she never did anything. She let Carol walk all over her. She always… she always…”

“Becky, do you know who else Anna is going to hurt?” Emily snapped, losing patience. Becky stared at her like a deer through a scope, realising the shot was coming.

“She might have killed Carol,” Becky mumbled. “OK, maybe she did. Maybe she killed Carol, and maybe Michael helped her get rid of the body, cause I guess he would, but she would never kill Quint. She would never do it. Okay? She just couldn’t do that! You’re wrong!”

“Anna murdered Quint,” York said. He felt tired. None of them wanted this conversation to keep going around in circles, and he knew every word was painful for Becky, but he had to reach the end. He would not let anyone else die on his watch. “She probably hoped you would never find out. I doubt she did it to hurt you, maybe she did it to help you, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is what happened, and what is going to happen next.”

“Next?” Becky mumbled.

“It’s not over yet, Becky,” York said. “So tell us. Anna is your best friend. You know her better than anyone. If she was the killer, if she wasn’t done, and if she was going to kill someone else… who would it be?” Becky bit her lip, blinking, tears of admittance just beginning to crest her cheeks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “She’d kill the sheriff.”


	61. Weakness

Chapter Sixty-One. [ Weakness ]

Emily and York practically raced each other back to the cruiser, and York felt there would be no complaints about his fast driving today. As they started down the road, Emily let out an angry sigh.

“This is so complicated!” she breathed roughly. “First, we find out George had a secret life, and that he was abusing these girls, and now… now we have to save him from one of them!”

“Cases don’t get more complicated than this,” York assured her. There were a lot of emotions in play. He hadn’t yet decided how to feel himself. He sped towards the sheriff’s department, wondering if he wished Thomas was there with George or not. If he had been, would Anna be tempted to kill him too? After all, Thomas had known about George, Carol, and their secret life. He hoped deeply, sincerely, for a moment that Thomas was safe somewhere, locked inside, out of harm’s way. Outside of Emily, York couldn’t think of anyone he wanted safe more.

It seemed that last night’s events, when he and Emily had kissed, and when he had told her he loved her, was from another world. A dream. He struggled to believe that it had been so recent. Less than twenty-four hours ago. She hadn’t mentioned it, but then, there had not been any time. The moment that should have been theirs to discuss it had been taken over by his realisation that he’d found the Raincoat Killer. Maybe when this was over, he thought. Then they would have all the time they wanted.

“George is much bigger than Anna, she won’t be able to do it,” Emily said abruptly. York had to remind himself what they had been talking about. He was buried in the memory of the night before, and how the words ‘I love you’ had sounded coming out of his mouth. He nodded awkwardly, slightly too late.

“Of course not,” he agreed.

“Quint and Carol were about her size, or close enough,” Emily continued. “And Harry probably couldn’t defend himself without Michael’s help. She can’t get to George, though. He must be twice her weight, and he’s a foot taller than her!”

“Perhaps that’s why she left him til the end,” York reasoned. “She started with the easiest, and slowly worked her way up. I imagine George was the one she wanted all along. He’s the cause of all this. Just like Thomas said he was.”

“Oh, Thomas,” Emily sighed. “I hope he’s all right.” She felt the same as he had, York noticed gladly.

By the time they got to the sheriff’s department, it was raining. Just lightly for now, but it would get worse, York knew. It was that kind of light, fine rain that got you wetter than you realised. The sort that didn’t seem to warrant a coat, but which drenched you in an instant. They both ran to the door, and through it. The sheriff’s department was silent inside.

“He’ll be in his office,” Emily said, and they went towards it, rushing. York wondered what they would find. As it turned out, what they found was an anti-climax. George’s office was empty. There were files and papers open on the desk, but no sign of the man who had been going through them.

“He must be at home,” York said.

“Yeah. He hasn’t been coming into work regularly since Carol’s death,” Emily sighed. “I should have guessed he wouldn’t be here.”

“I went to his house,” York remembered. “He didn’t seem very eager to let me inside.”

“I’ve actually never been to his house,” Emily admitted, realising as she said it that it was odd. “I think he said something about keeping work separate from home, once. I don’t remember.”

“That sounds like our stoic sheriff,” York joked weakly. “Even without his double life, he’s a private man.” Emily nodded. York reached for a cigarette and thought better of it. It was no time for distractions.

“Let’s go, York,” Emily said insistently. He wasn’t going to disagree. The pressure was on.

♦ ♦ ♦

George’s house remained as closed off as the man himself, with every window shuttered and no hint of light escaping. York was reminded of the Stewart mansion, with all its tightly curtained windows, and wondered if Harry and George had had slightly more in common than either had thought. If nothing else, they shared their penchant for secrets. As they approached the house, Emily reached out and put a hand against the wall. When she took it away, flecks of moss and dirt clung to her palm.

“I can’t imagine George living here,” she said uncertainly. “But this is the right address.”

“It’s strange that he’s never invited you over,” York said. “I suppose we’ll find out what he was trying to hide soon enough.” York tapped his holster to make sure his gun was to hand. He had no idea what they would be walking into. Anna Graham had seemed like a sweet, gentle girl, but after seeing the gory remains of her handiwork, he was not going to take any chances. The person who had defaced Carol and skewered Harry was not to be underestimated.

York knocked on the door, and got no answer. He knocked again, and called out to George, but there was no sound of movement on the other side. He looked at Emily, whose face was grim. Together they pushed against the door, and watched as it opened without any complaint. That was a bad sign.

“George?” Emily shouted. “George, it’s Emily!” York wondered how she was feeling. For years, George had been a good friend. In the past two weeks, that had changed. Their whole history had been turned upside down, reconsidered, filled with holes. Yet, he expected that it was hard to let go of years of friendship overnight. Despite herself, and how she wanted to feel knowing what George had done, who he really was, York suspected Emily was worried about him. At least a little.

The inside of the house was bleak. It made York feel what he had first thought when he saw the house, that it had been abandoned. Surely a person would not live here. The living room was mostly empty, stripped of furniture long ago, and never refilled. Perhaps before he managed to become the sheriff, George had been short of money, and needed to sell it. It was the only thing York could think of. As the two of them walked silently through to the kitchen, they saw empty boxes stacked randomly on the dirty counters, and shards of broken glass littered in the space near the walls. Perhaps George had shattered a bottle, or five, against the wall and never cleaned it up.

“York, I…” Emily stammered. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“No, Emily, I know that,” York agreed. “But I don’t think our killer would have had time to rearrange George’s entire house for our arrival. This is just how he lived.” Like a teenager, York thought. An especially disorganised, reckless teenager. It was odd that George had never grown out of that mindset. There had to be a reason.

“Where is he?” Emily asked. “I don’t see him anywhere. He didn’t answer the door.” She was getting jumpier. They were both waiting for the twist, York thought. The big surprise that was surely coming. The longer the wait, the more time it would have to sneak up on them. He thought, trying to remember things that George had told him. Any hints. Then, it came back to him.

“He mentioned a cellar,” York said suddenly. “This house has a cellar somewhere.” Emily went straight to action, and began to wind her way through the house, searching. York joined her. It took them some time. The cellar door was obscured. It blended perfectly into the wall, and unless someone was looking for it, it would pass for nothing. York waited a moment with his hand against it. There was no chance they were going to like what they found. He just hoped they weren’t entirely too late.

“Do you think… do you… what do you think?” Emily asked. What York thought was that Emily should not have to see this. The victims so far had been one thing, but George was different. He and Emily knew each other. They worked together. They had been friends. He searched her face and thought, looking at her, that she agreed. She did not want to see it. Whatever it was.

“Emily, let me do this alone,” York said firmly. “I’ll call if I need backup. I’m used to going into these situations alone. I prefer it.”

“Thank you,” Emily said, knowing what he was doing. “This one is… it’s different.”

“I know,” York said. Emily took a few steps back from the door, crossing her arms. She would be ready in case he needed her. York decided he would make sure he didn’t. He reached for his gun, holding it tightly in one hand and pushing on the concealed door with the other. It was time.

When the stairs to the cellar were revealed, York was hit with the smell of damp and rot. He would have to tread carefully in case the wood was eaten through. He took a cautious few steps down, and let the door close behind him. He hoped it would be possible to get back out again. At least Emily would be there, if it turned out there was no handle on the inside. He continued downward, trying to ignore the smell, trying to step lightly so he did not end up stuck halfway into the old wooden stairs. The room he was descending into was dark. There was no natural light. No windows. The little light there was seemed to be coming from nowhere. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw a rusted metal bedframe with a sheet, but no mattress. The idea that George slept there, in the same cellar he had confessed to being locked in as a child, made York’s skin crawl.

“What do you think, Zach?” he muttered. “It looks like Greenvale’s sheriff never grew up.”

He stepped further into the room, turning the corner, and finally he saw it. York, FBI agent and horror movie fan that he was, was rarely shocked, but this time he jumped. George was slumped against the wall, in a pool of red seeds. They had been scattered all around him, like a fairy ring, keeping the evil in check. His mouth was stuffed with strips of red fabric, that looked like it had been torn from a dress. He had not tried to remove them, as his hands were busy, held tightly over the huge wound in his chest. It was a tear really, running a good seven inches downwards, where the axe had been dragged through the flesh. The axe, a great wood axe like the one the original Raincoat Killer had used, was still embedded, the head dug into George’s torso. George looked dizzily back at York for a second. Long enough for York to realise he was still alive. He reacted on impulse.

“George!” he shouted, dropping his gun to the floor and rushing towards the other man. He gripped the axe handle and tugged before he could ask himself if it was a good idea. He wanted to remove it, to try and fix what was already done. To prevent his failure. He realised it had not been buried deeply, despite appearances. Though the blood covering George’s legs suggested it had had plenty of time to sink in. With the axe gone, York removed his jacket and attempted to cover the wound, to try and stop it from overflowing. Then he pulled the fabric from George’s mouth. George coughed, and a handful of red seeds came out with the blood, splattering York’s shirt.

“Agent York…” George muttered weakly. “You showed up after all.”

“I figured it out, George,” York said. “I know who the Raincoat Killer is.”

“We both do now,” George answered, trying to sound sarcastic, or rude, or combative. Something of his old self, and failing. York felt conflicted. What he felt towards George was mostly anger, after everything the sheriff had done, but it was difficult to maintain that feeling looking at him now. He was broken, helpless, and useless. The sheriff was gone. Only George remained. And George was not the man he wanted to be.

“I can’t believe it was her all along,” York sighed. “What did she do to you, George? How did she manage this?”

“Acted scared,” George coughed. He sounded more sluggish with every word. “Said that… with Carol gone, the secrets were coming out. Course I let her in, I thought… I thought…”

“Wait,” York said suddenly, as it dawned on him. “You weren’t planning on hurting _her_ , were you George?” To keep the secret quiet, York thought. To prevent Anna from talking. Just another murder or, more likely, a missing person to be blamed on the Raincoat Killer.

“Doesn’t matter now, what was gonna happen,” George murmured. “Only matters… what did.”

“I bet she surprised you,” York said coldly, his empathy quickly drying up. “This was something you never thought her capable of, isn’t that right, George?”

“What… did I tell you, York,” George growled. “Queen of the fucking universe.” York indeed remembered. When George had called Anna that, that night at the Galaxy of Terror, after Carol’s death, he had meant it to be demeaning. It was a suggestion that Anna overestimated herself and what she was worth. It had taken some time, but it seemed George finally realised that he was the one who had been wrong. He had grossly underestimated what she was capable of.

York looked down at the wound, and at the large red stain soaking through his jacket. It was too late for George. He was dying. There was no way to save him. The hospital was too far away. He had already lost too much blood. It was all but over.

“George,” York said firmly. “Where did the axe come from?” He could at least get some information out of him before it was too late.

“Mine,” George mumbled, his voice hollow and distant. “For… trees. In the garden. When they… overgrow.” York recalled George’s story of his mother’s unique punishment. How she would pull branches off the garden tree and hit him with them. No wonder George wanted to cut them off whenever they reappeared. He was still afraid. York wondered if Anna had planned to use the axe, or if it had merely been a lucky surprise. The other murders had primarily used knives. No doubt this one had been rushed.

“George, tell me who killed you,” York asked. “Please. I need you to say her name.” He had no doubts. Everything George had said had confirmed the truth. He had alluded to Anna throughout this final conversation, but York needed the name. He wanted to be able to tell people that George had named his killer right before his death.

“I’m not… not weak, York,” George murmured. York waited a moment, but there was nothing else. He was resisting it, York realised with horror. George saw Anna as weak, as prey, as someone for him to throw around however he liked. He could not bear, more than the fact that he was being killed, that she was the one to do it. That Anna, the girl he had thought of all along as nothing better than an easy target, had been the Raincoat Killer. The person who had slipped through his fingers as sheriff, humiliated him, and made him feel as powerless as he had been as a child. He hated that fact more than anything else. It was killing him much more effectively than the wound.

“George, just say her name. We both know who it was. I know you know who it was. Tell me!” York demanded. George glared at him, narrowing his eyes, and shifting slightly in place. It made York think back to when they had first met, and how strongly George had resisted then. How he had been so desperate not to accept York’s help. That was who he was, at the end. A man who would not let anyone know he needed help.

“You wasted… your time, York,” George groaned. “If you just stop… wasting time.”

“You’re dying,” York sighed in agitation. “Just tell me Anna killed you!”

“I don’t blame him anymore…” George said suddenly. “Not now he… not now he’s dead. Maybe he had his reasons… right? I don’t blame Thomas either… for leaving. I let Carol down, he was… he was right, I should have… should have stopped it. But Emily. I wanted her to know that… that I loved her. She’s different to all of them. I gotta… gotta _forgive_ them, but not her. She never did… never did a thing wrong in her life. She’s too good for this town. Too good… for me. She would have made it different for me. She would have made it better.”

“George, I need you to do this one thing for me. Please!” York insisted. George almost smiled. Almost.

“York… you need me to do everything for you. How would you solve the case… without me?” With those parting words out of the way, he turned his head away from York. York shook him by the shoulders, but George refused to say another word. He chose to be stubborn in his final moments, and to never admit that one of his victims had finally beaten him. A couple of minutes later, the light was gone from his eyes, and York knew he had died. It was over.

“Why, Zach?” York sighed. “Was it really that important for him not to be weak?” He got to his feet, turning away from the sheriff’s body in disdain. George’s entire adult life had been a series of attempts to prove he was not weak. Everything he had done to Thomas, then Carol, then Becky and Anna, and who knew how many others, was exactly that. If he was stronger, stronger than them, then he couldn’t be weak. York admitted that George’s final decision had made sense to him. That admittance would have made everything he did to everyone else meaningless. All the hurt for nothing.

With George dead, it occurred to York again that the light in the room didn’t seem to be coming from anywhere. He had not been able to save George, or prevent the fourth murder, but he might at least solve this petty mystery. He turned towards the direction of the light, coming from the wall George was slumped against, and searched for the source. Eventually he realised that it was coming from behind an old, rotted wardrobe. He realised that there was a hole in the wall behind it. Maybe an old doorway missing the door. It took effort, and left his arms smelling of damp, but York shifted the thing out of the way enough for him to pass.

There was another small section of the cellar through the doorway, and a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling which provided the room with light. In the centre of this tiny room was an armchair. With someone sitting in it. York’s heart jumped. Could Anna really be that foolish? Had she heard him coming down the stairs and hidden at the last moment? He walked slowly towards the figure, and when he crossed in front of them he shook his head, letting out a low moan.

The woman had blown her head off with a gun. What remained was surprisingly neat and clean, but there was no disguising what she had done. Her hands were still stuck stiffly in the right position, forever reaching for the trigger, even though the gun itself had been taken away. How long ago, York wondered sickly. The body was old. All the residue that would have been created had been wiped up a long time ago, the body neatened, the clothes straightened and mopped. She had been taken care of like a store mannequin. Like an elderly relative, the carer completely oblivious to the fact that half her face had fallen away. Ignoring the fact that she was dead. Or denying it, as best they could.

“I suppose… this is George’s mother,” York mumbled. “He kept trying to keep her happy all this time, Zach. I don’t think his efforts met with much appreciation.” York recognised the flowers he had brought to George sitting neatly in a small jar of water by the side of the chair. When George had said he wanted to take them to her grave, York had pictured a headstone. So she had killed herself, and left George alone. How old had George been when that had happened? How long had he been waiting for her to come back and say sorry?

There was something on the floor by her feet. York picked it up to discover it was a photo album. He flipped open the cover. The first few pages were filled with sparse pictures of George as a child, and some of his mother, before the self-inflicted decapitation. She had a short sweep of dark hair and intense green eyes. She did not appear to be smiling in any of the pictures. There was one, crumpled, that was clearly a photo of her and Harry, but which had been defaced with a marker pen until you could not make out his face. George’s only point of reference of his absent father. The only proof that he had ever existed at all.

York turned the pages, expecting more gruelling snapshots of George’s childhood, only to see that the direction changed abruptly. After three or four pages of George’s family, the remaining photos were of Emily. York shuddered, but he poured through them all, trying to take it in. They were mostly candid shots taken from some distance away, the very occasional one of her with George and Thomas in uniform, and some cut from the newspaper depicting Emily in the wake of some important work for the sheriff’s department. Some were taken through the windows of her house, and what sympathy York had felt for George vanished in an instant. He was a dangerous man. He had been a dangerous man. It was better for everyone, especially Emily, that it had ended like this.

“That’s all there is to see, Zach,” York said, shutting the album and dropping it back down onto the floor. “Now, it’s finally time to end the story of the Raincoat Killer.” He began back towards the stairs, offering George a final glance as he passed. The blood had unsurprisingly drained from his face, and he seemed to have faded. George had ended up like both of his parents, in the end.

“The things that weakness makes people do, Zach,” York murmured. “I’ll never understand it.”


	62. We Have Each Other

Chapter Sixty-Two. [ We Have Each Other ]

When York reached the top of the stairs, Emily was waiting impatiently for him. She saw the grim look on his face as soon as he appeared and could barely wait for him to close the cellar door before she demanded answers.

“Well?” she asked. “What happened down there?”

“He’s dead,” York said simply. Emily stared, blankly.

“How?” she asked. “He… how could Anna do that?”

“With an axe, apparently,” York answered, though he knew that was not the real answer. He had no idea how she had managed it, but he was ready to ask. “Let’s leave, Emily. We’re wasting time.”

“Fine…” she agreed numbly. Then, quietly, she added “I can’t believe George is dead.”

“No, I didn’t expect this,” York sighed. “Of everyone, he seemed safe. But we still have work to do. We need to go to Anna’s house.” Emily nodded. They left the house, and as York began towards the car, Emily stopped him by grabbing hold of his arm. When he turned in surprise, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He let her stand there for a while. When she withdrew her face, sighing, she stared up at him and he had to take a breath.

“I think I love you too,” she said softly. Then she hurried over to the car.

“Did you hear, Zach?” York breathed. “We’re reaching the end of the story, aren’t we?”

The drive to the Graham house was tainted with anticipation, and York suspected that even if it hadn’t been, Emily would still have shyly avoided looking at him, as she seemed to be doing whenever he glanced at her. Although it wasn’t really shyness, but that sort of awkward quality that people develop when they’re not used to expressing themselves. The feeling one gets when they have not yet learnt to stand by their emotions. When he stopped the car outside the house, Emily got out straight away. It was still raining, but neither of them focused on it. She waited for him and they walked to the door together, where York knocked. Sallie answered several minutes later.

“Yeah? What d’you want?” she asked sceptically. They were not getting an invitation in, but it did not matter. This was not a social visit.

“We need to speak to Anna,” York said firmly.

“You got to stop harassing my daughter!” Sallie snapped, shoving a finger into his face. “She has been through enough lately! Her friends are dropping like flies, and you don’t seem to know what’s what. Arresting people and letting them go! You’re ridiculous!” York restrained a small smile. He felt that Sallie would be less interested in him arresting the killer if she knew who it was.

“Sallie, the case is over,” Emily said. “We need to speak to Anna, and we can finally put it to bed.” Sallie considered her for a moment. It was not with the same distrust and irritation she displayed looking at York, and he decided that she did have faith in the police after all. But only the local police. Unfortunately, that small town thinking had worked against them with George in charge.

“She isn’t here,” Sallie said, just managing to sound apologetic. “She went to a friend’s house.”

“When?” Emily asked, frowning. “We spoke to Becky earlier, and she wasn’t there.”

“Not Becky, one of her other friends,” Sallie told her. “She left a note on the kitchen table. Said the two of them had evening plans.”

“All right… thank you,” Emily said, and Sallie shut the door. She turned to York. “Michael,” she muttered. York nodded.

“The Stewart mansion,” he said. “It might be a trap, if she’s realised what we know.”

“Then it’s dangerous, we need backup!” Emily said. He shook his head. “York, stop. I hope you don’t expect to go into this alone. I’m with you. We’re a team.”

“We are, Emily,” York agreed. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had. But I won’t let you get hurt. I know that you’re a police officer too, and you’ve shown throughout this case that you know how to do your job. I don’t have any doubts about that. But you’re a good person, and I don’t believe that you could look Anna Graham in the eye and shoot her if you had to.”

“What?” Emily asked unhappily. “But… well, I… I wouldn’t have to do that, would I?”

“If you wouldn’t have to do it, then I’ll be safe alone,” York countered. “Despite everything that’s happened, I don’t expect this to be a violent confrontation. Seeing how these murders have been done, I can tell she’s smart. She’ll know it’s the end now. I think even if she doesn’t want to come quietly, Michael will be enough to influence her to give herself up. Maybe he already wants her to.”

“Could you shoot them, then?” Emily asked numbly. “If they made you?”

“We’ll see,” York said, shrugging his shoulders. “I…” He patted his holster and realised he had left his gun behind in George’s cellar. “Damn it!”

“Here, take mine,” Emily said, pulling out her gun and tossing it to him. “I can get another one from Wesley. He handles all the department orders. You might need it.” He hoped he wouldn’t. York did not think that, if it came to it, he would want to shoot a teenage girl in the face, murderer or not. He was thankful that Emily knew as much as he did. If there was any trouble, she could take over and summon the FBI, bring them down on Anna’s head.

“Thanks, Emily,” York said. He thought for a moment, then he leant down and kissed her. In an instant, her hands were in his hair and the kiss was far more intense than he had planned. It was desperate. He would really have to make sure he didn’t die, now. He doubted Emily would be able to forgive him, and it might impact on their relationship.

“Be careful,” she said. He grinned at her.

“I promise.” Emily smiled back. Then they turned away from each other, and York went in the direction of his car, while Emily ran through the rain towards the sheriff’s department.

“I think we found our one, Zach,” York muttered to himself as he got behind the wheel. “It might not be the right time, but I think a date is a good way to celebrate the end of a case, don’t you?”

♦ ♦ ♦

By the time York reached the Stewart mansion, the rain was worse. There was a real storm out now, and the sky was darkening. It was too early for it to be getting dark in summer, but then it was not a normal day. He parked, rushing to the front door to get out of the wet. It would not do for him to confront the Raincoat Killer while he was soaked through.

The front door was unlocked, as it had been on the night that Harry was killed. He was thankful for Emily’s gun. He hoped he would not need it, but you never knew. He had been involved in cases with almost every type of person, and it was sometimes hard to tell which ones would turn on you at the end and which ones knew when it was time to give up. And he had already been so wrong about who Anna Graham really was.

Inside, it was dark. The corridor stretched away into nothingness. He had always had Michael with him in the past, to lead him through the huge building, but York had faith that he could manage. It seemed unlikely that Michael would be willing to guide him tonight. He walked forward, listening for a sign of where they were, trying to ready himself for the possibility of a trap. All he could make out was the faint sound of the waterfall at the back of the house. He went towards it. It was his best bet. When York reached the edge of the dining hall, the darkness ended.

They were there, arm in arm, facing the window and the waterfall. As York entered the room, they turned together, to face him. Michael stood out against the darkness beyond the window in his white suit, the slim smile on his face in drastic contrast to how he had been the last time he had been in this room. Anna, hair flowing past her shoulders, and a similar smile on her face, was wearing a red evening dress. A long stream of fabric that pooled on the floor like blood, far too big for her. York shivered involuntarily as he was struck by a memory. That day in the art gallery, when the two ghosts or visions or whatever they had been had appeared and accosted him. The young lovers. United by vengeance and death. He should have known. He should have known all along.

“That dress doesn’t fit you right,” York said. He could not think of anything better to say in the moment. “Where did you get it?”

“It was in one of the closets here,” Anna answered. York wanted to sigh. She sounded just like the girl she had been pretending to be, who wanted to be a model, and move to Seattle, and who was just the sort of person to be playing dress up with some old, borrowed clothes. That girl did not exist, York reminded himself. He liked to think she had, once. That George had killed that Anna, and replaced her with this one. But how was he supposed to know?

“I found George,” York went on. “He died while I was there. That’s four victims, Anna.”

“I know,” she said, lightly smirking. “It’s all done now.”

“Oh, is it?” York asked crossly. “Four was enough?”

“Four was exactly the right amount,” Anna said, eyes widening. “That was the deal.”

“The deal?” York asked. Anna smiled, but she did answer. He frowned, and walked over to them. Neither moved or even flinched. “There was no note at the last scene,” York said. “I thought that was part of it. Or does it no longer matter? Now that the Raincoat Killer’s hood has been pulled back?” Michael drew his arm out to the side and pointed. On one of the tables there sat a silver tray, probably one that had once been used to serve tea. York approached it and found the slip of paper sitting there, waiting for him.

“The Revenge of the Raincoat Killer,” he read aloud, in a scathing voice. “On rainy nights. I ate the seeds. We suffered for him. And finally, I am rewarded.” He turned on them, stamping back across the floor. “Rewarded how, Anna?” he asked.

“How I was promised,” she deflected. “So I’m not gonna push my luck.”

“Anna, this is not a game,” he reminded her. Harry was dead, and York was still here, in this room, playing mind games. There was no escape.

“We have no intention of playing a game, but there is more than you think in play,” Michael said. “There are things you cannot see outside the frame, and plenty besides that yet to say.” York narrowed his eyes. He had a few choice words prepared for the last bereaved survivor of the Woodman family.

“Michael, do you remember the night we found Harry’s body? And how upset you were?” York asked pointedly. “Was that fake?” He saw Michael flinch, but if his words had got through at all, there was no indication of it when Michael spoke.

“My grief is a separate entity, one you cannot use against me,” he said.

“I would be quite upset if the person I loved betrayed me like that,” York suggested, hoping to crack Michael’s veneer a little further.

“You don’t know us!” Anna snapped. “I’m just dumb Anna from the diner, right? Poor little Anna who followed Carol around on a string. Poor little Anna who went into George’s secret basement and never really came out again. Huh?”

“Or his cellar,” York offered. She ignored the opportunity to incriminate herself further. “I don’t think you’re dumb, Anna,” he added. “I never did.”

“Everyone does,” Anna scoffed. “I think the only people who don’t think I’m dumb are Becky and Michael. Sorry, I guess there’s four other people who don’t think I’m dumb… now.”

“George certainly didn’t want to admit who got to him in the end,” York commented. He saw Anna’s lips twitch with approval. She was pleased. It must have hurt her not to watch him die, after all he had done. York was glad to have taken that one thing from her, even if it was the only death he would have actually considered earned.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I wanted to ask you that question, Anna,” York replied.

“You first,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“All right,” York conceded. Maybe if he played their game at first, he would get the answers he wanted. “George was still alive when I got there. I tried to help him, but it was clear he was doomed from the start. The axe was a nice touch, Anna. Historical, in two ways. The weapon George’s grandfather used to orphan his father, and a reminder of his mother’s unique punishments.” Anna said nothing, staring back at York soundlessly. Waiting for more. “I imagine the seeds and scraps of dress stuck in his mouth are a reminder, too. Of your night together.”

“Call it that again!” Anna snarled, stepping forward as Michael reached out to stop her.

“What did happen under the Galaxy of Terror, Anna?” York asked, in a gentler voice. He tried to sound the way Emily did when she was comforting a witness, trying to squeeze information out without them noticing. Anna did not take to it, and he wondered if Emily would have managed.

“The same thing that always happens,” Anna snapped. “Someone decided it was his right to take advantage. Like they all do, okay? In the end… but you know that, Agent York.” She pointed across at him, staring coldly. “You work for the FBI, right? So, it’s not like you don’t know. You must see loads of girls like me all the time. Cold and dead, and ready to be buried. We all die with sharp nails and high heels and still none of us put up a fight! We don’t know that we have weapons until it’s too late! We’re born victims! Well, not me. Someone reminded me that it could be different.”

“Did they…?” York murmured. He could not forget that there was that other factor in play. The red seeds murders around the country, the trees themselves. All of it pointed at a larger suspect, at a mastermind. Bigger than Anna. And he had a suspicion that following the trees would bring him to them in the end.

“Yeah,” Anna said. “And now it’s done. I’m free. It’ll never happen again.”

“Anna, no-one can protect you from everyone,” York reminded her. “Terrible things happen.”

“Yeah, but not to me. I’m done,” Anna said firmly, folding her arms. York supposed there was no convincing her tonight. She was riding high on her success and she must feel like, well, like George had said. The queen of the fucking universe.

“I’m sorry George hurt you, and I’m sorry you felt this was the only way,” York said. “But it wasn’t. And even if you wanted revenge against him, why the others? Did they have to die?”

“I wasn’t strong enough to fight back against the sheriff,” Anna muttered. As York watched, he saw Michael’s eyes flicker over to her sympathetically. It was a good story, even York would admit that.

“Let’s start with Quint. You certainly did,” York began. “What did he do? How did he hurt you?”

“Quint… didn’t really hurt me. It’s sad he’s dead,” Anna admitted. “It’s a real shame.”

“But just because his death is a shame, does not mean he was without any blame,” Michael added.

“No? I would love to hear what an eighteen-year-old boy did to deserve being pulverised in a lumber mill,” York scoffed. “You even denied him the catharsis of a dying scream.”

“It’s better if people don’t say anything when they die,” Anna said quickly. “I mean, it’s like, just important. I bet the sheriff didn’t scream when he died. I… know he didn’t.” York frowned. He had to admit, George had stubbornly refused to say anything in his final minutes.

“Let’s talk about Carol,” York went on, ignoring the odd comment. “Carol was one of George’s victims. He took advantage of her, abused her, and yet you decided that she deserved to die. I think that you’re a smart girl, Anna. Don’t tell me she died because of some unresolved romantic feelings on your part?” He watched with a small feeling of satisfaction as Michael unwillingly screwed his hands into fists, as his lip twitched. It seemed the suggestion had hit a nerve.

“That has nothing to do with the death of Carol MacLaine!” Michael snapped. “So… it’s poor logic and you should refrain!”

“Carol was the one who tricked me and Becky into going to the Galaxy of Terror the night that George was waiting for us,” Anna said, staring pointedly at Michael as if willing him not to risk another potentially damning outburst. “And I moved on from her, because she treated me like shit. Okay? Next?”

“She was still a victim,” York stressed. He had come to feel that truth deeply. Carol had always been a victim, from the day George picked her out, to the day she died. It may not have been the only thing she was, but it underscored the tragedy of her life. She had deserved resolution. “I notice that Thomas MacLaine was spared by the Raincoat Killer,” he added, spitefully. He wanted Thomas to be safe, but he considered it hypocritical. Anna shrugged slightly, the left strap of her oversized dress sliding down her shoulder. She corrected it lazily as she answered.

“He wasn’t there,” Anna said. “I guess like behind the scenes he was, but he never hurt me and Becky. So, who cares. The sheriff messed with him too, right?”

“Yes, he did,” York agreed.

“Then he gets to recover,” Anna said, shrugging again. “Happy ending.”

“Without his sister,” York countered, angrily. “Carol meant everything to Thomas. He will never recover from what happened.”

“That’s sad,” Anna said. “I guess he should have tried to stop her from doing all that stuff she did, and getting on the Raincoat Killer’s bad side.” She smirked. “Right?”

“How about Harry,” York said, ignoring this last comment, because it got under his skin. He would not blame Thomas or Carol for what had happened, or how neither of them had managed to escape. “Harry, as we all know now, was Michael’s father. And as I saw Michael’s reaction to his death first hand, I know that they loved each other.”

“Michael loved _him_ ,” Anna scoffed immediately, although York had seen Michael move to speak.

“I think Harry was a flawed man,” York admitted. “But he loved his family. That was what kept getting him into trouble. First, he loved his parents, and as they came to find him the night that they died, he could not resist blaming himself for their death. Then he loved his wife. It’s hard to read between the lines of what happened there.”

“No it isn’t,” Anna interrupted.

“It is,” York carried on. “They were able to start a family together, and last long enough for him to think they were going to be happy. Something happened to the happy picture. Did he realise that the woman he loved was not who he thought she was? Did she realise he was not who she had thought _he_ was? Perhaps having a child was the last straw. It can be a complicated time for mothers. Especially if it brought back Harry’s fears about losing his last family.”

“That’s what you’re blaming it on?” Anna asked flatly. “You think the sheriff’s mom got all depressed and weird because she had a baby, and Harry freaked out so he ran? Please.”

“My point was that it’s difficult to know the truth, now that the whole family is dead,” York said coolly. “I won’t excuse what either of George’s parents did. I can’t imagine how difficult it was for him growing up. He must have felt all alone in the world.”

“Good,” Anna snorted.

“Harry lost his wife, and his child. His second family,” York went on. “He always regretted that. That family was his second chance, and we don’t always get a second chance. Much less often do we get a third.” He turned, facing towards Michael, softening his expression. “But Harry did manage to get a third chance, Michael. You know that. You were his last chance to have a happy family.”

“What… Mr. Stewart wanted has faded with his breath. He was unable to achieve it before his death,” Michael said, voice shaking slightly. York was ready to narrow in on that doubt.

“Harry loved you, Michael,” York said firmly. “I know he was afraid to admit that, in case he lost you too. Maybe Harry worried that he was cursed, and that just admitting how much you meant to him would ensure that something terrible happened to you. After Quint and Carol died, both of them just about your age, he probably thought fate was catching up to him. He thought the spirit of his past, in the form of the Raincoat Killer, had finally returned to take this last thing from him. The only thing he was still allowed to love.” Michael covered his mouth with one hand, looking down at the floor, and York wondered how much of what he was saying was true. It was one interpretation of Harry’s character. The interpretation that Anna had no doubt promoted after the third murder, that Harry had adopted Michael as a cheap replacement for his real son and then never warmed to the new child because of his unfortunate failure to actually become George, was equally likely. There was no way to know the truth. It depended how much faith you had in Harry. Whether you were willing to give him the benefit of love.

“Stop it!” Anna snapped at York, then turned seamlessly to Michael and stroked his face, bringing his gaze to her eyes. “Hey,” she soothed. “He’s gone. It doesn’t matter anymore, cause it’s over. It’s just us now. We have each other, okay?”

“Speaking of that,” York said. “I’m curious. Michael, were you there when Anna tried to kill George? Did you watch it?”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan, I don’t know what you mean. I have never been present at any crime scene,” Michael said, returning fully restored from the sea of doubt. York scowled to himself.

“Yes you were, Michael. There was one right where you’re standing,” York reminded him, bitterly. “Don’t be so quick to forget. Or forgive. You’re part of it, now. You chose your side. And it’s with the Raincoat Killer. You may as well be wearing the cowl yourself.”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan, if you wish to act as the killer’s foil, you should know who plants the seed and who only… tills the soil,” Michael said, smiling faintly.

“Very funny, Michael _Tillotson_ ,” York said. He had to admit, it was quite a quick joke. Unless Michael had been working on it in advance of his arrival. That thought troubled him. He liked to imagine his killer and their accomplice had been standing here in the dark, perfectly still, waiting for him to arrive and click the lights on. Not as human beings who had been going through their own complex gamut of emotions before he got there.

“He can be pretty funny,” Anna agreed. “When he’s allowed to actually be himself.”

“I think the two of you are going to have plenty of time to show people who you really are, now,” York said. “Hopefully the fact that you’ll finally be understood and appreciated for who you are will be a comfort when you’re in separate prisons.” Michael shifted unhappily in place and looked at Anna, but she did not react at all. She was as still as a statue.

“We aren’t going to prison,” she said coolly.

“Anna, I am afraid that when the FBI agent catches you red-handed, then you end up in prison,” York sighed. He reached for Emily’s gun in the holster, and patted it, just subtly enough so the two of them would still be able to make it out. He hoped it was not going to prove necessary after all.

“But only guilty people go to prison,” Anna said, breaking into a grin. “And we’re innocent. We never hurt anyone.”

“Anna, this is not a game, and while you’ve proven to be a very good liar, this is one of those situations that you can’t get out of,” York said slowly, irritable. How much back and forth was he going to have to endure before he could put this case to bed?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Anna said. “After all, I’m not the Raincoat Killer… where’s the proof?” She was still grinning and York wondered what made her feel so confident all of a sudden. She had confirmed everything he had said. She knew that he knew the truth.

“I just watched George Woodman die from the axe wound you gave him,” York said.

“Mr. Francis York Morgan,” Michael said suddenly. “I notice you seem to have misplaced your gun. What you carry in your holster is not the same one.” York glanced down. He supposed that life with Harry had given Michael an eye for details. Emily’s gun did not sit quite as easily in the holster, it was slightly too big.

“I misplaced it when I was with George,” York answered. “I dropped it while I was trying to save his life. I forgot to pick it up after trying to remove the axe. I was too late, but you already know that. I’ll go back and get it later.”

“So, like, you’re gonna go back to a crime scene, move around the evidence that’s there, take stuff away that was there before, and all because you made a mistake when you were busy getting fingerprints all over the murder weapon?” Anna asked. “Wow, I bet that axe looks super planted now! Awkward. Right, Michael?”

“If anyone were to see him return there tonight, it would cast the evidence in a cynical light,” Michael agreed. York hated to admit they had a point. He had disrupted the crime scene thanks to his fruitless attempts to save George’s life. If someone witnessed him going back into George’s house, only to return with the gun he had foolishly left behind, it would not look good. Zach was always reminding him not to rush.

“All right,” York said coldly. “Then I suppose we’ll have to look at the other murders. How about we start with Carol’s murder, Anna? You have a very strong motive for that.”

“And a super strong alibi, backed up by pretty much the whole Greenvale sheriff’s department!” Anna said excitedly. “Oops, the surviving members, obviously. Sorry.”

“An alibi that has been broken,” York said, smiling to himself, ready to drop his own ace. “Becky has admitted that not only was she lying about seeing Carol the morning we found her body, but also that you and Carol were at her house at the same time the evening before. When Carol was actually killed.” He was pleased. It would surely rattle Anna to know that Becky had already folded and given up on the lie. So he was surprised when, instead of cracking, Anna’s smile deepened into a dark, victorious smirk. He was missing something crucial.

“Wow… Oh dear,” Anna said, feigning innocence, like she had done during the interview he had taken with her that provided the false alibi in the first place. The smirk never left her face. “That makes Becky seem like a liar.”

“She lied to protect you, Anna,” York reminded her.

“Yeah, maybe,” Anna admitted. “Or she lied to protect herself. Cause Becky… is the Raincoat Killer.” York had to make sure he had heard her. He had expected a trap when he walked into the Stewart mansion. He had questioned whether Anna would come with him easily, or put up a fight. He had not thought that she would try something this flimsy.

“I know that she isn’t,” he said in disbelief. “Anna, this argument won’t convince me. I know that you’re the killer. I have no doubt about it, and accusing Becky is below you.”

“Let’s go over the evidence, shall we?” Anna said, mocking his voice. “We know Becky and Carol fought right before Carol died, and we know Becky lied about when she saw her last. We know that Becky was alone when Carol’s body was dumped at the lake, and we know that me, Anna, was not. I was with the FBI agent. No doubt about it, I couldn’t have been there to move Carol’s body.”

“You weren’t,” York said angrily. “Michael is the one who moved the body. We have a witness who saw him do it.” Michael let out a weak gasp and Anna immediately clasped a hand over his wrist protectively.

“If they saw him then you would have arrested him then,” she reasoned. “So, I bet they just saw a short person wearing a hoody. Sounds like Becky to me.”

“This is despicable!” York sighed. “Are you trying to frame Becky? She’s your best friend!”

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna arrest Becky,” Anna laughed. “Cause you know she didn’t do it. Duh!”

“I’m going to arrest _you!_ ” York reminded her. “You killed Carol, and Michael moved the body. After that, you killed Harry. And the only way to link Harry and Carol’s murders, by motive, is if someone was wounded by both of them. No-one fits that description, which is why it felt so odd that Harry was killed. But, if there are two people involved in the murders, suddenly they fit together perfectly. The only person who, before his death, had a knowing connection to Harry Stewart was his son, Michael.”

“So Michael killed Harry?” Anna drawled. “Impossible! He was with the FBI agent. Funny how everyone you think did it was with you during one of the murders, right? So weird!”

“He was with me,” York agreed patiently. “So the killer is someone who cares about Michael. His girlfriend.” Anna nodded her head.

“Yeah, his girlfriend,” she agreed. “Becky.” York let out a little bubble of laughter.

“Excuse me?” he said. “Michael and Becky are not a couple. I have a feeling Michael’s girlfriend might be the one holding his hand as we speak.”

“Relying on intuition is a sign of a bad FBI agent,” Michael said.

“It’s not intuition,” York countered. “I have proof that the two of you are a couple.”

“Okay… where?” Anna asked. “Outside of this room, where is your proof? And it’s not like you can take anything out of here. You didn’t bring a tape recorder with you.” York stopped.

“Well… Becky confirmed it,” he said.

“I bet she did, cause she’s covering,” Anna said. She tapped a finger against her lip, smirking. “You remember that morning when you came to my house? You knew there was someone else there.”

“Ah, yes,” York remembered. “Michael. That makes sense.”

“Right!” Anna agreed. “And apparently after that, you asked Lilly Ingram from the store if Becky was dating someone, cause you thought she was the one who had a boy over. She asked Becky about it, and Becky told me off for being super obvious. I bet Lilly would fill in the blanks if someone mentioned it to her. That Becky had Michael over, like you thought.”

“Anna, people know that you and Michael are the couple. Becky has nothing to do with it,” York said.

“Do they though?” Anna asked. “No. They don’t. They only people who know anything about it are me, Michael, and Becky. And Quint, but like, not so much anymore. My mom doesn’t know. Olivia and Nick haven’t seen anything. You put the idea in Lilly Ingram’s head that it was Becky who had a boyfriend. Michael and I aren’t gonna say anything. So that just leaves Becky. And she’s not exactly looking objective right now.”

“There will be a way of proving it,” York said coldly. Anna shrugged.

“I think,” Anna went on playfully. “That Becky got bored of dating Quint. He probably cheated on her with Carol, like everyone always kind of thought. So Becky killed Quint, and Carol. Then she found a new guy that was totally different. I guess she met him from all those times she would come and visit me when I was working in the diner. Maybe she got kind of obsessed with him. I mean… who wouldn’t. Anyway, even though she convinced Michael to hang out with us, say it never felt right to him, and he wasn’t, like, convinced. So maybe Becky wanted to make him feel really special. Maybe she kills his shitty dad who, surprise, reminds her of her own shitty dad! Maybe Harry spills the beans before he dies that his real son, the sheriff, is the reason he’s so mean to Michael. So Becky kills him too. And while she’s waiting to get all happy endings with her new boyfriend, she panics and decides to tell people that her best friend is a liar who totally really killed everyone. Cause I guess she knows that whole story about Carol being alive isn’t gonna hold up forever. Am I close, Agent York?” She waited. York actually felt slightly sick.

“How long did you plan this?” he asked. “You actually want Becky to go to prison in your place? Anna, that’s terrible!”

“Yeah…” Anna said, smile fading slightly for a brief second. “But she won’t. You don’t want to arrest Becky, so she’s safe. I just think that story is interesting… that’s all.”

“No-one will believe it,” York challenged.

“Miss. Becky Ames proposed many times that she and I unite,” Michael piped up. “Once I realised what she had done, it was hard to fight.”

“Excuse me, Michael?” York sighed.

“After telling me that she was the killer, she threatened me, if I would not agree to…” Michael waved his hand in the air.

“Fill in that blank,” Anna laughed. “And I’m sure, even though he was frightened for his life, he was totally on his way to tell the cops because justice,” Anna said pointedly, smiling, “is so important.”

“I see,” York muttered in frustration. “So, your story is that Anna is an innocent bystander, Becky is the Raincoat Killer, and Michael just so happens to have driven her to murder with his… something I’m missing.”

“That’s slightly rude,” Michael mumbled, but Anna waved him off, and nodded.

“It’s a good story,” York admitted. “You put a lot of thought into it. But I’m not going to arrest Becky, as you’ve said. I’m going to arrest the two of you.” Feeling the time was right, York reached for the handcuffs at his belt, but Anna made a quick clicking noise with her tongue, and he realised there was going to be more.

“It’d be really sad,” Anna said slowly. “If Becky ended up in prison anyway. Cause you don’t think she’s the killer, and she’s got her whole life ahead of her. Super tragic. Right?”

“What are you talking about now?” York sighed.

“I mean… cases don’t just end when the FBI say ‘gotcha’, do they?” Anna asked, that fake innocence returning. “They end with a trial. If someone says they’re innocent then, like, they have to have a fair trial. And I think any good lawyer would listen to the story I just told you and ask why Becky wasn’t the one who was arrested, when there’s so much more evidence against her than there is against us.”

“Ah, yes,” York said. The part of investigation work he hated the most happened after the case closed, and all his hard work was torn apart by a team of experts. Anna knew what she was talking about. “I don’t think Sallie Graham will be able to pay for much of a lawyer, Anna. I believe she’s unemployed. It might be a stretch to hope for that.”

“I know someone who might help me out,” Anna said dryly, giving Michael’s hand a squeeze. “Maybe… Harry Stewart’s sole heir. You know he owned like half the town? That’s a lot of money to inherit all at once!”

“I believe with that money we will succeed, in making sure Anna ends up freed,” Michael added.

“This is supposing people believe your story!” York snapped. “Why would they? I intend to arrest you. Anything you say afterwards will look like covering.”

“I guess,” Anna admitted. “Hey, Michael, remind me of this? Where did Carol die again?”

“I believe it was at Miss. Becky Ames’ house,” Michael answered. “I heard that the tarp from the pool was found with the body. I imagine Carol MacLaine’s DNA will be found in the pool, as that is where the body was briefly stowed.”

“And I bet my mom will say I was home all the night before Carol died,” Anna said. “And then, like, we already know where I was when the body was dumped. Shame no-one knows if I have a boyfriend who could have helped me out with that.”

“That boyfriend would presumably ask for something in return. Moving a body is a hard favour to earn,” Michael suggested.

“I guess the killer could get rid of his dad,” Anna agreed. “It’s not like he could, after all. If anyone tried to accuse him of being involved in that death, he has an airtight alibi. Isn’t it super funny how I have an alibi and Michael has an alibi, but Becky doesn’t have any alibis, cause she spent all this time locked in her house, alone?”

“Becky will be able to pay for a good lawyer as well,” York argued. “And I will tell them everything they need to know about the real murderer.”

“That’s sort of fifty-fifty then?” Anna reasoned. “Wonder who’d win?” York did not answer her.

“There is another element to the murders,” he said instead. “The secret club, under the Galaxy of Terror. What George and Carol were doing behind everyone’s backs. The thing that started all this, on that night when you and Becky came face to face with their dark world.”

“You mean when Becky did,” Anna said.

“What?” York asked. “No, Anna. I’m well aware that you were there that night, too.”

“Fine,” Anna said, shrugging. “But you don’t have any proof. I have proof that Becky was there. And just Becky.” She turned to Michael, who reached into his pocket and withdrew a polaroid. Anna held it up for York to see. He flinched at the graphic depiction of George, hands roaming over Becky, who was clearly drunk and disorientated.

“That’s…” he muttered.

“Carol took it,” Anna said, speaking for a moment outside of her act. Her eyes softened and there was a brief flash of the real Anna again. “She was mixed up that night. I know George treated her like shit. She got dragged into it, but… it was no excuse. She would have let him do anything to us, and she just stood by and… watched.”

“I am very sorry no-one was able to stop that night from happening,” York said softly. Anna gave the photo back to Michael, who tucked it out of sight. She shrugged, her face a stiff line.

“Well it did,” she said flatly. “And then everything else had to happen too.”

“The point is that no-one who witnessed Anna there that night is still alive,” Michael added quietly.

“Just Anna and Becky…” York sighed. “Who can counter each other’s stories. I am beginning to see the pattern. If I arrest you, then you’ll tell people that Becky is the killer, and feed them this very carefully planned out fake story, hoping that the police will be confused enough by it to let you go.”

“That’s it,” Anna agreed, though her smile had faded after the reminder of the secret club.

“If that happens, then you know that you’ll lose Becky forever,” York said. “I don’t mean to prison. If she thinks that not only did you kill her boyfriend, but you framed her for the murder, then she will never forgive you. You lose your best friend. Is that a trade you’re willing to make?”

“I already made a trade that was difficult to make,” Anna said softly. “And thanks to that, I know I’m going to be safe. That was the deal. I didn’t ask for much. I didn’t want unlimited power or money. I just wanted to be safe, so no-one could hurt me like they did ever again. Four lives. It’s done. The trade’s made. You can’t hurt me, Agent York.”

“You’re willing to lose Becky?” York pressed. Anna hesitated. She turned to look at Michael, and smiled.

“If I have to,” she said. “At least we have each other.” Michael smiled gently back. It would have been heart-warming, York was sure, if the two had not achieved their happiness off the backs of four murder victims.

“Anna, I have to arrest you both,” he said. “I can’t let the killer walk free. I understand why you did this. I even feel that… when it comes to George’s murder, a part of me struggles to blame you for it. I have to arrest you because of Quint, and Carol, and Harry. They deserve justice.”

“Then arrest me, if you think you have to,” Anna breathed. She held out her hands in front of her, palms down. “But if you do, then Becky is going to go to prison. Trust me. I have powerful friends in my corner now.”

“There have already been so many victims throughout this case,” Michael added softly. “It would be terrible to add another innocent face.”

“You’re betting everything on this,” York said steadily, one hand on the handcuffs. “You’re confident enough in your story that you can frame Becky, even if I arrest you both, and avoid prison.” Then, he sighed. “Except… you’re also betting that I won’t arrest you at all, because I know Becky is innocent, and arresting you means risking her spending her life in prison for a crime she didn’t commit.”

“Pretty much,” Anna said, smiling weakly. “Bet you wish you had a tape recorder right now, huh?”

“I do, Anna,” York said. He looked between the two of them for a moment. He saw the impression he had entered the room with, of the two of them in their borrowed finery with their victory smiles, challenged by the image of the two of them as frightened young adults who had dug their own graves in a frantic attempt to escape their unhappy lives. There was no truth. Both impressions were right. He was looking at a murderer and their accomplice, but he was also looking at one of George’s victims and the foolish boy who had agreed to try and save her. He could not tell which one a court would see, when he could not decide which one he saw himself. How he would have liked to have seen exactly what went through their heads during it all. How they had decided what they were going to do. If they had been sorry, regretful. If they had cried for their victims. If only there was a way to have seen it.

“So?” Anna asked, when York had been silent for a while.

“Becky does not deserve to go to prison for what you have done,” York said. “And what you have done will catch up to you both, there’s no escaping that now.”

“But you won’t arrest us?” Anna asked, voice light.

“I think you expect to be happy after all this,” York said sadly. It was sad, all of it, he could admit that. This had been a tragic story. There were no winners in it. “You won’t be. Because I cannot believe that the girl I met, who laughed at the diner and who clearly loves her best friend, doesn’t feel guilty for what she’s done. That Anna might be hiding right now, but when she comes out, and realises that she sunk so low as to try and frame her friend, one of the few people who stuck by her after what must have been a very difficult experience, she will hurt. When she sees that she tried to buy her own happiness at the expense of Becky’s future – taking away her boyfriend, her safety, and perhaps her freedom – then she will weep. I think that Anna will wonder why she did it every day. I think it will eat away at her and poison every single thing this new Anna got from her trade. You think that the two of you are going to be happy, Anna? How long until the Michael I saw crying over his father’s body on the floor, right where you’re standing, comes back? That Michael knows it was a terrible thing, and an avoidable thing. Harry would still be alive if you hadn’t made the choice to kill him, Anna. The real Michael knows that. Not this new Michael who has convinced himself that he’s at peace with it, because you’re all he has left. When the new Michael and the new Anna crack, which they will, because this cannot last forever, the old Michael and the old Anna will come back, and they will see how bloody their hands are, and see what they have lost. They will break down, and neither of them will ever forgive you. Never.”

“We’ll worry about that if it happens…” Anna mumbled. “Which it won’t.”

“Anna and I have each other, forever. That will not change at all, never,” Michael agreed.

“We love each other,” Anna breathed. “So… no regrets.”

“That’s an easy thing to say, and a harder thing to live by for the next fifty years,” York said. “Which you have to do, of course. Because if you decide to go your separate ways, then one of you will immediately be tempted to hand the other over to the police, before the same can be done to you. So you really do have each other, forever. Forever and ever.” He turned to face Michael, cocking an eyebrow. “Michael, that means waking up next to the woman who murdered your father in cold blood, every day. Eating breakfast with her, in his house. Knowing that she stole your chance to hear him tell you he loved you. Which he did. I hope that knowledge does not disrupt things for you both during those long stretches of time together, over the next fifty years. It’s a lot of thinking time to fill. Maybe it’ll come back to you when it’s time to have your own children. And you can finally understand why, with all that pressure, and those inescapable memories, and the guilt, why Harry ran away from his own family so many years ago. Like father, like son. Good luck.”

“I… absolutely not, I…” Michael stammered, but York turned to Anna without breaking his focus.

“Anna,” York said. “For you, it’s knowing that the person you love inspired you to kill. Michael was the trigger, wasn’t he? He certainly persuaded you to kill Harry, and I suspect the others, too. You did it for him. For the two of you, so you could be happy. And every night, when the nightmares start and you’re forced to relive the moments when you crushed the life from another human being, perhaps the final look on Carol’s face before you rubbed it out, or the betrayal Quint must have felt when he realised you were going to kill him, you can turn to look at Michael, and ask yourself if it was worth it. When Becky hangs up the phone on you for the fifth time, because you killed her boyfriend, you can turn to look at him and try to decide if it was worth it. When you realise that your hands stay red forever, that the blood never comes clean, you will have him there to remind you why you did it. For the first year, perhaps, it will seem like it was worth it. The second year, the fifth. What about the tenth year? The twentieth? Because you have your whole life ahead of you, Anna, you’re so young. And each and every moment of that life was bought with someone else’s blood. When you look in Michael’s eyes, you’ll know you can never forget it.”

“It won’t work,” Anna said. Her voice sounded distant, far away. It almost disappeared into the roar of the waterfall behind her. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“They all think that, Anna,” York said sadly. “But there is no way to prepare for taking a human life. As you’ll realise soon, when the shock wears off and it all sinks in. You murdered Quint. You murdered Carol. You murdered Harry. And you murdered George.”

“It was worth it!” Anna snapped. “Now no-one will ever hurt us again!”

“I hope it was worth it,” York agreed. “Because there’s no way to take it back.” He removed a cigarette and placed it between his lips, lighting it. “You’ve got what you wanted, I suppose,” he said. “You’re not going to prison. I’m not going to risk throwing Becky’s life away as well, you were right. I knew you weren’t dumb.” He paused to let out a breath of smoke. “I think staying here is going to be worse. This is a very big, very empty house. Plenty of room for ghosts. And their ghosts will never leave you. Forever is a very long time.”

York turned around, dropping the partially smoked cigarette onto the floor and crushing it underfoot. He began to walk away, but he heard the click of heels a second later coming up behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Anna was there, the over-sized dress swamping her, making her look like a child in someone else’s clothes. Playing dress up with someone else’s life.

“You’re wrong,” she said coldly. “We’re going to be happy. We’re going to have a happy ending.”

“Yes, Anna,” York sighed. “After the price you paid for it, I hope you do.” He walked down the hall, letting the sounds of the waterfall fade behind him. He reached the front door, and opened it, stepping out into the cold rain. The day was over. The night had come.


	63. As the Day Ends

Chapter Sixty-Three. [ As the Day Ends ]

When the knocking started, it had already gone midnight, and Emily was not pleased to be woken up. She had had enough trouble getting to sleep. It had been difficult to convince herself that York was all right, but she knew that the truth would come out by morning. No doubt it had been a busy night for him. When she saw him, drenched, standing sombrely outside her door, she had questions.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” she asked first. York shook his head.

“I’m fine, Emily,” he assured her. “I spoke with Anna and Michael.”

“And?” Emily asked. “What happened?”

“Can I come in? I’ll tell you everything,” York said.

Later, York sat in Emily’s living room with a towel around his shoulders and a cup of terrible coffee in his hands. With the adrenaline gone, he had started to realise how cold he was, and Emily had been eager to dry him out. He had told her the whole story, from his confrontation with the Raincoat Killer, to Anna’s ruse to have Becky framed in her place, to the bitter conclusion. Emily had questioned his choice at first, insisting that they had to put the murderer behind bars, but over time she had softened, and realised what little good it would do.

“You’re sure Greenvale is safe?” she asked now, from her seat next to York.

“Yes, Emily,” York said. “Anna will never kill again. She got what she wanted. Besides, there was some other element in play. The same thing that inspired those other murders with the red seeds. I think the number was important. This is the end of the Raincoat killings.”

“Do you think she would really let Becky go to prison for her?” Emily wondered aloud. The question had been burning in York’s mind, too. He had no idea. He wanted to think not, but it all depended on which Anna was the real Anna. Was she the sweet girl in over her head, lured down a dark path by the influence of the seeds? Or was the Raincoat Killer the real one, red coat over a red dress, soaked in blood and glad of it. Who could answer that?

“Who knows, Emily,” York said, shrugging. “Although I think she’s going to lose Becky anyway. We already told her the truth. Even if she isn’t sure whether or not to believe us, I think it’ll hit her eventually. Who else but Anna could have done it?”

“Becky’s lost everyone,” Emily sighed.

“Except her sister,” York pointed out. “Maybe this tragedy will finally be the one to bring the Ames sisters together.” Emily leant her head against his shoulder.

“Maybe,” she agreed sadly. She sat quietly, leaving her head there for a while, before shifting. “I was thinking…” Emily said. “Well, this case has made me think about it. I’m going to call my dad again. Try and see if there’s anything still there. It’s been a long time since we talked, I think I want to see what he has to say about that.”

“That’s a good idea, Emily,” York agreed. He was glad to see some good coming from everything. “I hope the two of you are able to see each other again soon.”

“I was angry with him after my mother died,” Emily continued. “He just didn’t seem to help me much. I’ve realised that’s nothing compared to what some people have to go through with their parents. I’ll never have my mother back. I can at least try and get my father back in my life.”

“While you have the chance,” York agreed. “I wish I could see my parents again. Just for a while. I still have so many questions.”

“It’s hard for it to be over, when you have to leave it like that,” Emily said, resting her head against him again. “You could find out, someday. What really happened to them, I mean.”

“I hope I do,” York breathed. “Though it might be just how it looked.” They were both quiet after that. York began to wonder if Emily had fallen asleep, but when he looked down at her, her eyes were still open.

“When are you going to leave Greenvale?” she asked suddenly.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” York admitted. “It’s hard to feel like the case is over, what with the killer celebrating with Harry’s wine collection as we speak.” Emily sniggered into his shoulder.

“You think?” she said, then quickly recovered from the second of humour. “I can’t believe they’re going to get away with it,” she sighed.

“I know,” York said. “I’m not happy. I hate to see a case end this way.”

“What I can’t believe, is that they’ll just be there,” Emily started, stroking a hand idly back and forth over York’s arm, with the lazy rhythm of someone brushing their own hair. “The two of them know they got away with murder, but they’ll still be here, in town. Can I ever go into the A&G diner again? What if Anna serves me? She’ll know, and I’ll know. How can it ever be normal again?”

“I don’t know if she’ll keep working there,” York reasoned, slightly missing the point. “I suspect it will get to them eventually, all of this. Anna is not a monster, she’s a person, with a conscience. She can’t outrun the guilt forever.”

“I hope not,” Emily said, frowning. “But what about everyone else? Do we tell them? We could have a town meeting and tell people the truth. Don’t they deserve to know?”

“Do you want to watch them descend on those two with torches and pitchforks?” York asked dryly. “I didn’t expect you to favour vigilante justice, Deputy Wyatt.” Emily snorted with laughter, and York smiled.

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “But… aren’t you leaving people in the same place that you were as a child? They won’t know what happened. They’ll always wonder.”

“I admit, it’s difficult,” York said. “Becky knows now. You saw how she reacted. I think, no matter how bad not knowing is, it might still be what she would have preferred. Do you think Richard really wants to know? Sure, he thinks he does, but if he finds out his future step-daughter killed his son… that’ll ruin what little he has left.”

“There are always more people involved than you think at first,” Emily sighed. “It would have been so much easier if the killer was someone… isolated. I hate to say it, but maybe it should have been George. Do you think anyone would mourn him, after what we found out?”

“With Harry and Carol dead?” York asked. “No, I doubt that. It would have been easier, but there’s no point wondering about other scenarios now. This is what we have. This is what happened.” Emily murmured a noise of agreement.

“So… when will you leave Greenvale?” she asked again. “It’s all finished now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” York said softly. “I suppose it’s all finished now. It just doesn’t feel it quite yet.”

♦ ♦ ♦

York left Emily’s house a short while later and drove himself back to the hotel. When he got into his room, he saw that Polly had left a small square of paper for him on the bed. He removed his jacket as he read it over. Apparently, General Lysander had finished the work on his car, and he could pick it up whenever he liked. The bill was going to be expensive. York placed the note on the desk and lay down on the bed. With his car fixed, he really could leave Greenvale whenever he wanted.

“Zach,” York said aloud. “Isn’t it going to be strange leaving now? I feel like a lot has changed. Emily… Emily’s at the centre of that. It’s been nice knowing that she’s just down the road. When we leave Greenvale… she won’t be nearby anymore. We’d be leaving her here with a serial killer. Can we do that, Zach?”

York stretched out, and shook his feet until his shoes fell onto the floor. He took out a cigarette and lit it, breathing the smoke up above him towards the ceiling.

“Anna Graham,” he muttered. “What a surprise, Zach. I thought I had seen everything, but I never suspected her. Not until today. It was the addition of having an accomplice that surprised me. How about you? I should have guessed. She set up her alibi perfectly. She’s a very talented liar. And I’m sure no jury in America would want to convict that face.” He frowned to himself.

“Now we have to let the healing happen, Zach,” he sighed. “Greenvale has been wounded by this case. And it’s lost its sheriff! Who will replace George, I wonder? Is Emily interested in the job? I didn’t ask. She could take on Thomas as her deputy, though I’m sure none of us think that’s a good idea. Him most of all.” He gently shook his head. “Thomas… he’ll want to know the truth. We have to decide, don’t we, Zach? If he’ll be better off knowing. If Thomas learns that Carol was killed by one of the girls she tricked into George’s game, will he blame himself? He knew about it, after all. I don’t think Thomas should have to blame himself for Carol’s death, do you? But, like Emily said, not knowing is a whole other kind of pain.”

York was beginning to feel tired. It had been an irrationally long day. It felt like months had passed since the night before, and to think, when he had been drinking with Emily then it had all seemed like it was going to work out for the best. He supposed it still might, in some ways, but he would not be bringing the Raincoat Killer back with him to the FBI. That was not going to be a popular revelation.

“I have a premonition that people are going to be upset with me here in Greenvale,” York joked. “Maybe it’s going to end up like The Wicker Man for me after all. Though I think we’ve lost our Lord Summerisle now, don’t you?” He let out a weak laugh. “We may have to address the town before we leave. To let everyone know that the murders have stopped, at least. I don’t want people afraid to leave their homes forever. Then… it might be wise to get out of the public eye for a while. What do you think, Zach? Fishing? I’ve always wanted to try it.” He grinned to himself. “Jim will be happy to see us go. He might teach us, if it’ll get us out of Greenvale faster.” York spent a moment thinking about all the rivers running through Greenvale. He bet the fishing was good in this part of the country.

As he wondered to himself, there came a knock at the door, and he got straight to his feet. It was still the early hours of the morning, and an unexpected guest at this time was cause for concern. Especially after the day he had had. He stubbed out his cigarette, and approached the door carefully, then opened it, expecting the worst.

“Hey there, York!” came the friendly greeting. York allowed himself a breath. It was Forrest Kaysen.

“Hello,” he said back. “What do you need, Kaysen? It’s late.”

“Or early!” Forrest laughed. “You know, we are out in the countryside. The two of us could be on farm time, and then, why, we’re practically late starting our days!” It must have seemed a lot funnier to him, York thought. He did not feel like laughing.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he half-heartedly agreed. “But I am tired, Kaysen, I haven’t slept yet.” With that, York hoped to close the door, but Forrest stepped forward and eased past him into the room. York began to feel tense.

“I couldn’t sleep much myself,” Forrest explained. “And then I saw the lights of your car. Thought I’d drop by and say hello, seeing as we’re both awake. Where were you tonight? Out on the killer’s trail?” He smirked.

“Not anymore,” York said coldly. “The case is over.”

“Gee, you don’t really think Diane did it, do you?” Forrest laughed. For a friend of hers, the laugh was far too full of amusement, York decided. It was almost cruel.

“No, we released her earlier,” York informed him. He remained next to the door, in the hope that Kaysen would catch the hint soon.

“Good, that’s good,” he mused. “Diane never hurt someone that badly. Sometimes she wishes she had, or could, I suppose. She can’t. All pomp and no circumstance, y’know?” He laughed to himself again, shoulders shaking, grin fixed on his face.

“I think Diane is capable of doing damage, if she wants to,” York argued. Forrest shrugged it off. “A lot of people are,” York added.

“Well, sure, a lot of people are,” Kaysen agreed amiably. “All kinds of people wind up doing… well, the things that have happened right here in Greenvale, ain’t that right?”

“I’m tired, Kaysen, I apologise,” York sighed. “I’d like to go to bed.”

“Late night, huh?” Kaysen joked. “Maybe with that Deputy Wyatt, if I wasn’t wrong about you two.” York narrowed his eyes, irritated at the suggestion that Kaysen knew something about his personal life. If it was intended to be friendly, York would have to assure him that they were not friends.

“Emily and I have been working together,” York said quickly, aware that his tone was not managing to be neutral. “We happen to need to spend time together, for the case. Tonight I had things to discuss with her. As I said, the case is over now.” Kaysen raised an eyebrow briefly and smirked back at York, finally making a move towards the door.

“Well, my mistake,” he laughed. “You two sure seem to like each other, for co-workers. Course in my business, I don’t really have any of those. Maybe they’re better than I remember.” York held the door for him until Kaysen mercifully stepped through it, then closed and locked it behind him. He sighed crossly to himself and went back to the bed to lie down again. When he felt the blankets against his head, he closed his eyes.

“I can’t believe Kaysen knows about Emily, Zach,” he muttered. “Even I didn’t know until recently. Let’s hope it’s all he knows. I didn’t take him for the perceptive sort. Although… he does seem to have something hiding beneath that friendly face, don’t you agree?” York put his hands over his eyes and groaned. “We’ve learnt the hard way not to overlook people like _that_ , right, Zach?”

He wondered what the FBI were going to say when he handed in his report. There had been times before, obviously, where he had been unable to solve a case. That was natural. It happened to everyone, now and again. York never cared for it. He had a high rate of success, and cases like this were always black marks on his record that, even if his superiors were not especially upset by them, got under his skin endlessly. He thought again about Emily’s suggestions. The idea of holding a town meeting to explain things, especially. He doubted that outing Anna and Michael as killers would do anything but tear Greenvale in half, but he also hated the idea of leaving town without a word. A meeting might be a good idea, although what he would say was currently undecided. Maybe it would come to him if he slept on it. Someone had to tell the people that their sheriff was dead, at least.

York rolled over and reached for the phone. He dialled Thomas’ number and waited. It was a while before he got an answer, and when Thomas asked who was there, it was with a yawn. York had woken him up.

“I’m sorry to call so early, Thomas,” York apologised. “I want you to arrange another town meeting. I have some comments to make before I can close this case officially.” He heard Thomas gasp and the sound of something being knocked over. It sounded like glass. York hoped it hadn’t been important.

“You know who killed Carol?” Thomas asked frantically. York bit into his lip.

“I… I’ll tell you everything as soon as it’s wrapped up, Thomas,” he said. “I promise, but I can’t yet. Not before everything is… official.” Thomas sighed weakly down the line.

“All right…” he said. “When do you want me to arrange the meeting? Tomorrow?”

“No, Thomas. The day after. I need a day to prepare,” York said. “And… I’m sorry, again. For everything. Goodnight.” He hung up the phone. A day to prepare would have to be enough. He would need almost that much time just to think what he was going to tell Thomas.

“Where do you think everyone is, Zach?” he murmured. “Right now, I mean. Thomas was asleep. I suppose most people are. Emily probably went to bed when we left her. If she can sleep, that is. After today… let’s just say I’m glad it’s almost tomorrow, Zach. What a day. Everyone else in town will be asleep, waiting for morning, as well. Except perhaps for Anna and Michael. They must have more on their minds than even we do. They’re the ones who have to live with it now. I expect that when Anna makes that call to Becky tomorrow, she won’t be entirely pleased by what she hears. And that’s without Becky knowing that Anna tried to sell her short. Greenvale doesn’t feel like the same town we arrived it anymore, does it, Zach? Everyone who lives here… who’s still alive… they’re not the people we thought.” He yawned. No matter what had happened, or should have happened, or could have happened, the day was over. It was all over. It was time to sleep. “Am I forgetting anyone, Zach…? It feels like… hmm.” But he could not manage to stay awake any longer. He was exhausted. As he drifted off, his last thought was of who he had forgotten. Forrest Kaysen. He was probably the only one who was already awake, ready for the next day’s events to come.


	64. York’s Fourth Dream

Chapter Sixty-Four. [ York’s Fourth Dream ]

I find myself in the red room again. I wondered when I would be back here. The floor is a dark red, as if stained, but the seeds have dried up. There are no more. Only the stained ground, firm under my feet. And no walls.

“Are you there, Zach?” I ask.

“I’m here,” he answers.

“I couldn’t do it, Zach,” I sigh. I walk forward, but with just the ground and no walls, it’s as if I’m not moving at all. “They got away from me.”

“I told you to slow down, York,” Zach says. His voice is soft and understanding, like an older brother. Perhaps. I’ve never had a brother.

“I understand now,” I tell him. “I tipped them off that I knew, somehow. I ruined the crime scene in George’s cellar. They got ahead of me. They got away.”

“It’s not your fault. This was inevitable,” Zach tells me, gently. “They have something else on their side. Anna was too cautious. She was desperate to survive.”

As I walk, something slowly comes into focus up ahead. It’s far away, a jutting shape in the seamless whiteness of the world. A solid red teardrop against the sky. I begin to speed up, eager to get closer and find out what it is. When I do, I see it. A figure, kneeling, as if in prayer. Their back faces me. I recognise them. The Raincoat Killer.

As the figure rises to their feet, I finally see them as they really are. Not the over-built, looming monster I saw in my previous trysts in the other world. A small, slender figure whose coat brushes the floor like a prom dress. Anna Graham in the red room. In her red coat. She turns to face me.

“Anna,” I murmur. She stretches out an arm, sharpened fingers aimed at me, and I wonder if she wants me to take it. I’m suddenly hit by a wave of cold as a shadow passes through my body. I cough and gasp, as if someone has poured water down my nose. The shadow has taken her hand. I can make out the faint, coruscating outlines that betray the sweep of their hair, the outlines of their clothes. The shadow is Michael. Even if he is a shimmery silver shape without a face.

“Now here be are, all going have right,” the Raincoat Killer murmurs. They speak with Anna’s voice, as if there was any doubt. It is hard to see her face beneath the cowl, but the watery locks that drip down from the hood are hers.

“I safe keep you. Not make any hasty. Not do foolish!” the shadow answers, its voice the lilting, poetic quality I’ve come to expect from Michael. There is a sense of concern there, too. Far too late to do any good.

“Zach, is this a dream? Or is this real somehow?” I ask.

“This is never just a dream, York,” he says softly.

As I watch, the two figures embrace, briefly melting into a twirling stream of liquid, grey and red mingling as if someone washed their residue down a sink. Ash and blood, draining away. They reform and separate, and Anna rushes forward. The edge of the world is no longer a milky nothingness. Now I see trees ahead of us. A forest, sprung from nothing, grown in an instant. Anna runs toward it in her red coat, like Little Red Riding Hood, running straight into the wolf’s arms. As she reaches the treeline, she ducks onto her knees and holds her head in her hands. Is she praying? Screaming?

When she gets back to her feet, she turns, and her hands are stained with red. She wipes them frantically on her coat, but the colour only seems to transfer, rubbing more of that lethal shade onto her skin. In a moment, her hands are soaked, and she has no more recourse against the stain. It’s too late, it is already done. In this world, if not the real one, I have caught her red-handed.

She returns to us, and stands before the shadow Michael, who stares eyelessly down at her bloody hands with a jolt.

“What made have? Done is now? I told not make and done?!” he cries. His voice reaches a pitch like a boiling kettle and I have to clasp my hands over my ears.

“For you! For us!” Anna wails in response. She reaches out to grab him, and the red stain rubs off on his clothes. He stares down and panics, but she holds tight. As I watch, he snatches her hands and shoves them away, only for her to reapply them over and over, grasping tightly, and leaving more and more red handprints on his body. The grey, steel wool of the dream figures is soon smudged with red. In a matter of minutes, he is soaked. As red as she is. When he realises it, staring down at his hands and chest, he stops. Slowly, he lowers his arms. Anna pulls him into a fierce hug, her arms encircling him so tightly she may shear him in half. Now that they are both red with the stain, it is impossible to see any more transfer between the two. When they finally pull apart, they are exactly the same colour, head to toe.

I feel angry. I cannot just stand by and watch it happen again.

“Don’t you see!” I shout. The two of them spin around to face me. They’ve actually decided to listen. “Don’t you understand what you’ve done?”

“For did her, only. Make happy and be lasting, love, understand,” the Michael shadow informs me. It speaks with that weak, pitiable quality of a child confessing they have not finished their homework.

“Only safe be want! They do many so everything, you blaming still can?” Anna asks me, from beneath her cowl. Her voice is still defensive, the same quality she no doubt adopts when her mother catches her out too late on a school night.

“You’ll never be able to wash the blood off!” I shout back at them. As I look down, they seem a lot smaller than before. They were never this short in the real world, yet now they almost feel like puppets, dollies, dummies. Suddenly, as if in response to my thought, the two of them are yanked upwards by invisible strings and dangled in front of me, like animals in a snare.

They squirm and twitch and reach for each other, but they hang broken in half at the waist, and their attempts are futile.

“It’s hopeless,” I murmur. “You’re not even real. You’re just figments.” This sets off a second wave of protest, as the two of them wriggle in place against their strings. Anna reaches forward, the sleeve of the raincoat hanging over her fingers as she tries to grab at me. In anger, in desperation? It is unclear. It doesn’t matter. She cannot reach me, and I won’t offer her any help.

“Told do not just!” she wails. “He want. Still try you need to have, not done, need stop!”

“What are you trying to say?” I ask. “Zach? What is she trying to say?”

“York…” I hear Zach murmur, and it does not require our intense familiarity to recognise the nervousness in his voice.

“Stop him!” Anna cries out, as the cowl falls back from her face. For a second I am staring into her frightened blue eyes, as real as if we were back in her living room. Then I spin around to see where she is pointing, and there is something there.

I wipe my eyes, because it seems blurry. As if I just woke up, everything is smudged. Hot oil paints running, ruining. A seamless shape, like a lump of coal. Round and formless. No face, no limbs. I can only tell that this is a person because of a feeling inside my chest. It offers me nothing to confirm it.

“Who are you?” I ask. The figure remains stationary, like an anchor, fastened in place.

“Who is it?” I ask as I turn around. But the shadows behind me can no longer answer. Their hands go to their mouths, to hold it all in. The seeds. Their mouths are stuffed full of seeds and they try desperately to hold them in, as they balance in the air on the edge of their strings. Michael is the first to lose the battle. As he tries to cover his mouth, an arm slips, and suddenly the seeds spill down his chin, splattering the ground like vomit. They come and come, a red waterfall from within, and I watch it happen hopelessly. First his mouth empties, then the throat, the stomach. Every vein and cell. He is turned completely inside out. He vanishes before my eyes, his insides dispelled in a rush of red, only a brief silver glimmer to indicate there was ever anything but seeds inside.

Anna, the cowl now fallen back, exposing her face, watches it happen as helplessly as I do. Her eyes widen in horror, but she cannot remove her hands from her own mouth at the risk of it happening to her, too. I can hear the whine inside her, the scream that cannot come. Like Quint, and Carol, and Harry. She can only watch.

When the shadow Michael has disappeared, his insides pooling around my shoes, I see a light fade from Anna’s eyes. I wonder again how real this is. If I am watching one of my subconscious desires swell to life, or perhaps a play meant to teach me a lesson. Or is this as real as can be, a deadly premonition that I am tasked to prevent?

Anna looks at me, her eyes lock firmly on mine. An understanding passes between us. I have failed to capture the Raincoat Killer, but that is not the end. She is not the end. This fantasy is meant to assure me of that. There is something left. The bonus content, the epilogue, the secret message hidden at the end of the song.

I can tell what she is going to do the second before she does it. In that second, I thank her, though I still don’t know who it is I am thanking. Am I thanking Anna Graham? Surely not, as this is the other world, and she is firmly rooted in reality. Then, am I thanking myself? Some part that knew the truth, and has only now managed to formulate it into words, in her guise? Or perhaps, oddly enough, I am thanking the Raincoat Killer themselves. The killer and their legend that brought me to Greenvale. For, even if I could not capture them, they were not why I came here. I came here to solve something greater. The mystery of the red seeds. Am I not here to catch that phantom planter that so tormented Harry Stewart? That put the idea of murder into so many heads, across the country, as sure as a seed into dirt? The Raincoat Killer has given me the final piece of the puzzle. I am here to stop something much bigger than them. I always was.

“Forrest!” Anna shouts, as she removes her hands from her mouth. The seeds pour forth at once, and I watch her choke and gag as they spill onto the floor. Splat, splat, splat, comes the wet smack of handfuls of seeds against the ground. Unlike the shadow that puppeted for Michael Tillotson, Anna feels all too real. Too late, I reach out to take her hands. She grabs for me, and her skin feels real against mine. I squeeze her hand tightly as the seeds keep pouring. Our eyes remain locked on each other. She’s just a teenager, I think. For the first time it hits me hard. All the brutality, all the loss of life, was planned by another. There are not four victims. There are five.

It's nearly over now. The face is the last part, but it vanishes into red seeds like everything else. Her head crumbles inward like pie crust, exposing all the moist red fruit inside her. The seeds splatter my feet and legs. I can still feel her hand in mine, but it is gone. She is gone.

When I turn back around, the anchor is still there, waiting patiently, as ever. How many people has it dragged down into the depths before now?

“I know who you are,” I say coldly.

“York, please be careful,” Zach calls out. I would like to promise him that I will be. But it’s never that easy, Zach.

“Then let’s take this out of the red room.” The voice is low and overlaid with a squirming, mewling laughter. It does not come from the figure. It comes from everywhere. It is a sound being injected directly into my brain, and I can feel the needle go in.

“Get out!” I scream, and the world pulverises before me, first into coloured chunks, mashed up, then blackness, then nothing. I feel my heart beat in my throat.

I’m awake. And I know the truth.


	65. Showdown

Chapter Sixty-Five. [ Showdown ]

When York awoke, he found himself at the edge of the bed, blankets clutched tightly in his arms. No doubt it had been a violent sleep. He remembered the dream, and especially that last word on the imaginary Anna Graham’s lips. Forrest. Kaysen. The mastermind behind all of this. York unravelled himself from the blankets and got to his feet. He would have to get dressed quickly. This could not wait. It had already been too long, involved too many people. It was time to end it.

As York was pulling on his jacket, he saw a piece of paper sitting on the desk, where the carving of the bird had been. That was absent, he noticed. Odd. He picked up the paper to read it. It might be another note from Polly.

“Join me at the theatre. Watch the star actress perform her final show,” York read aloud. He dropped the note as the reality hit him. Emily. He picked up the phone at once and dialled, but there was no reply at her house. He slammed down the receiver, forced his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and grabbed his holster.

“I’m afraid I have to rush this time, Zach,” York said, fingers curling protectively around Emily’s borrowed gun. “I’m not going to lose her.”

It was a miserable day when he pushed through the hotel doors to the outside. The sky was spitting and the dark clouds that swirled overhead were tinged red with the promise of more rain to come. It took two attempts to unlock the police cruiser, as the key trembled in his fingers. When he got it open, speed limits did not enter his mind. It was a good thing it was early and most people had not fully started their days. York barrelled over to the community centre in a matter of minutes. There were no cars parked outside. Tomorrow there would be. Tomorrow he would have to give another town meeting, and decide on his parting words. If everything was still all right by tomorrow.

“We won’t let anything happen to Emily, Zach. We can’t,” York murmured. He walked towards the community centre, the former theatre, and went to take out a cigarette. As he did so, he thought better of it, grabbing the packet and tossing it down onto the ground. No distractions.

The front doors were locked, but York found a side door that was sitting open. Someone had wedged a chunk of wood into the door to stop it from closing, and that meant this was the way he was meant to go. He took out Emily’s gun and pointed it ahead of him. There was no reason to take chances. As he stepped into the dark interior, he realised how quiet it was. There was no sign of Emily anywhere. At least, not a conscious, living Emily. He pushed it out of his mind.

There was a door ahead of him which opened easily. This was the way into the theatre, where he had given that first speech at the town meeting, announcing that the legend of the Raincoat Killer had come to gory life. A speech, he now remembered, that had been interrupted by Harry and Michael’s sudden entrance.

“Guess they didn’t see any point in catching the first half, Zach,” York muttered. “They knew it all already.” He cracked the door, but heard nothing, and pushed it all the way. He stepped into the room. It was silent. Nothing moved. There was no-one there. York took a sharp breath. He had more hoops to jump through yet. He tried to think. Harry was stuck at the front of his mind, thanks to that interruption at the town meeting. All York could think about was the infuriating habit Harry had once possessed of ignoring other people and doing whatever he fancied in the moment. Then, it came back to him. Harry’s story about the night of the massacre. He had gone out to the theatre, despite his parents’ argument, no doubt against their wishes. He had wanted to see the finished clock tower. There was a way to reach the top from inside the theatre, he had said. York backed out of the room. He turned his head to face the darkness of the thoroughfare he had found himself in before. He holstered the gun, pulling out the pocket flashlight he carried with him instead.

With the light on, it was possible to see a slim, poorly-tended wooden staircase at the far side of the room. It ascended into a deeper darkness, up towards the top of the tower. York knew this was where he was expected to go. This is where Forrest Kaysen was leading him.

“It’s time, Zach,” York breathed. “Time for the showdown.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The clock hands were frozen. Juddering slightly, but unable to move, like a bug under a pin. York could not see the clock face as he reached the open-air top of the tower, but he could hear the absence of the ticking hands. Time, as far as the clock tower was concerned, had stopped. The space at the top of the tower was not walled off, and York would not have been surprised if he started to feel vertigo, if he spent too much time there. Before he had even fully finished cresting the stairs, he could tell that the tower looked out over half of Greenvale. On another day, it might be a nice spot for a picnic. So long as you removed yourself before the huge metal bell that hung menacingly above his head rang.

York stepped up onto the platform and looked across, towards the far edge. He could see the shape of him there, waiting. York strode over, and as he closed the distance, Forrest slowly turned around, grinning in that same way as ever, as if they were about to share a drink.

“Where is she?” York demanded. Forrest’s smile pulled at the edges, turning sinister.

“Why, who do you mean, York?” he asked.

“I got your note!” York snapped. “You left it in my hotel room. You told me to come here, because you have her. You have Emily. Where is she?”

“Note?” Forrest laughed. “Gosh, and I thought we might be able to be friendly to one another. I hoped you wouldn’t need a _threat_ to show up and talk to your old pal, but I guess you did.”

“Where is Emily?” York demanded again. Nothing else until he knew. He had to know she was safe.

“My guess is at work!” Forrest laughed, deeply, highly amused. York froze. “You think I had her? She’s fine, York, I’ve no idea where she got to. I’m not her keeper!”

“You told me –” York started, but Forrest laughed straight over him.

“What was that note again?” Forrest asked. “I told you to come see the ‘star actress’ perform her final show, isn’t that right? And I guess you think Emily’s the star, seeing as how you’re sweet on her. I don’t know what to tell you, York. She’s nothing to me!”

“So… Emily is safe?” York asked.

“Oh, how sweet is that?” Forrest sneered. “Surely you know who you’ve come to talk to, alone, and still it’s her you’re worried about.” York realised what Forrest meant. He turned around, but the stairs which he had come up were gone. The ground was seamless. The only way down, he thought queasily, was over the side.

“Get back,” York said coldly, taking out the gun and pointing it between Forrest’s eyes. It did little to affect the man’s mood. There was more laughter. That rigid leer remained unchanged.

“You know that won’t make a difference, York,” Forrest sniggered. “After all, it never really does.” As he said it, he waved a hand and suddenly, oozing from the edges of the platform, came the shadows. They rose up in a wave of dirty cream, bubbling like spoiled milk. Their faces formed, their eyes twitched like noses, seeking him out, their mouths hanging open with broken jaws.

“It always makes a difference,” York countered. “I can always stop them.” He glared at Forrest then, to prove the point, aimed the gun at one of the shadows and fired. The bullet went straight through its head, no doubt zipping off into the air beyond. The shadow did not react. It was unhurt, the features of its face reforming a moment after the bullet disappeared. York stepped back in panic.

“Now, I have to tell you something,” Forrest giggled. “A confession, if you like.” He cleared his throat. York struggled to focus on what he was saying, too paranoid that the rows of shadows at every side were suddenly beyond his abilities to destroy. “I’m not… well, I’m not like everyone else, you might say. And not in the way that you’re, well, an oddball, York. I mean that I’m not a human being. I come from somewhere else. And that comes with certain perks.”

“Perks?” York repeated numbly, staring from one melting face to another.

“Perks!” Forrest agreed cheerfully. “Sure, not everyone would see it that way. But I enjoy having a little control over the unreal. I bet you’d love to be in my shoes, wouldn’t you, York?”

“You can… control the shadows?” York asked. Forrest laughed.

“If you want to call them that!” he agreed. “Personally, I prefer seeing them as ghosts. I mean, they are. These ones are, at least. You know all about Greenvale’s gory history by now. Meet the players who gave their lives for the show!” York looked around at them. None of them attempted to move, he realised. Forrest was holding them off, showing them off. They were on display. These were the ghosts of the people the Raincoat Killer, the first one, killed during the massacre. The people who unknowingly ate the red seeds and killed themselves in brutal accidents, if they didn’t turn on their neighbours first.

“You killed these people!” York shouted. “It was you!”

“Yes, yes, I poisoned them, if you want to be technical,” Forrest laughed. “Although they killed each other. I didn’t take part in that. Much more fun sitting back with a tub of popcorn. I found most of them pretty boring, honestly, York. They barely put up a fight! I did like that one, though, the one with the axe? Foolishly brought an axe to a fistfight! Got himself cut into ribbons by your friend the Raincoat Killer!”

“Brian,” York said, with a rush of recognition. He looked around quickly, but could not see him anywhere. All the ghosts were featureless. They blended together with nothing to distinguish one from the next.

“Brian, that’s his name,” Forrest agreed, smugly. “Oh, he is funny. Or he was. Probably a little stir crazy by now, all alone in that graveyard! Though less alone than he was.”

“After the murders,” York finished for him. “Yes, I heard from the Ingram twins that he might have company. They claimed to have seen Carol in the forest.”

“Her and that boy are not worth the tiny amount of energy it would take to project them!” Forrest laughed. “I thought we were in for a real fight when the killer picked her, but no! She went down easy. Maybe all the guilt made her too heavy to fight back.”

“So they did really see her?” York asked. “The twins. Isaach and Isaiah. They saw Carol’s ghost?”

“They see all kinds of things,” Forrest said dismissively, shaking a hand vaguely at York. “Probably spend too much time nipping at my ankles. They start to pick up on it.”

“I see,” York sighed. He would have to add the Ingram twins to his list of people affected by the red seeds, even though Lilly had tried so hard to keep them away from the truth. Their time with Forrest Kaysen had corrupted them. It was no surprise he had seen them in his dreams of the red room.

“I’ll have to do something about that one day,” Forrest said. “But maybe they’ll grow up to be useful. One way or another.” York frowned. There was no positive way to interpret that.

“Then you’re trying to tell me that ghosts are real,” York said flatly, moving on. “The shadows… the ones I’ve been seeing for years… they’re the ghosts of people who’ve died violently, and you have some degree of control over them?”

“What? No, no!” Forrest laughed the suggestion off, and York was confused. “You really are a fun one, York! No, _these_ are ghosts. As in the ones I’m showing you, right now, right here? And our friend Brian, he’s a ghost, but then he told you that, I’m sure. When you’re dead, pretty much the only interesting anecdote you have is about how you wound up that way.”

“I don’t understand!” York snapped. “You just told me –”

“Let me tell you a story, York,” Forrest carried on, over him. “Every time someone gets a bit too close to me, for too long, they start to see things. Little things at first, I’m sure, but the switch is tripped, as they say. As you said, the Ingram boys started, but they’re just kids, no-one listens to them much about it. All my friends start to see it. Everyone I… deal with, in business, I mean. And that means that when there’s a big show on and I just have to stick around, eventually someone like you shows up, and if they’re unlucky they start seeing ‘em too.” Forrest cut himself off to let out a loud, deep laugh like a belch. “But you, York! You didn’t blink an eye, cause it’s all old news to you! You see things like that every day! When you ran into Brian, why, anyone else would be checking themselves into hospital, but not you! Just another part of your day, right, York? It was nothing new to you!”

“What?” York asked weakly, tugging absently on his tie.

“I’m saying that most people wouldn’t take ghosts and visions in stride!” Forrest laughed darkly. He was making fun, enjoying every word. “Oh, don’t get me started on the dreams! When they started, I thought for sure you would realise something was up, but nope. Another night in the life of Francis York Morgan, it seems! Dreams with messages from the dead, conversations with an actual ghost, dancing with a couple of dead teenagers, and you don’t blink an eye!” He stopped to smile, nastily, throwing out his arms to the side. “All because you’re _used to it!_ ”

“Used to… what?” York asked numbly.

“You already see things that aren’t there, York. You see figments, hear voices, you certainly have those dreams of another life. All of it, for years. You spent so long trying to decide if all that phony baloney was real, that you didn’t even _notice_ when it suddenly _was!_ ”

“So… all of it, the shadows…” York began.

“Delusional!” Forrest laughed over him. “Before you came to Greenvale, that is. They’re nothing, York. Nothing but your brain putting on a show for you. All these years being afraid, shooting at them, smacking at them, and it meant nothing! Until we met, until tonight, you were just lashing out at your own brain.” He shook his head, sniggering into his hands, before fixing York with a stare. “You think you can fight me? You’re so crazy, you can’t even fight _yourself!_ ”

“Stop it,” York asked. The gun felt heavy in his hands, like it was too big for him. Like he was a child, playing with his father’s gun. The shadows, or the ghosts, he should call them, surrounding them felt empty now. They were not human figures anymore, they were sheets blowing mindlessly in the wind. They were nothing. They had always been nothing.

“How can I stop?” Forrest laughed. “You still aren’t ready to hear the truth?”

“It isn’t the whole truth,” York said weakly. “It isn’t. There’s… it’s not all real, but…”

“I sure felt lucky when they sent you,” Forrest sneered. “Any normal FBI agent would take one look at it all and call for backup. Sure, you might not be able to report a ghost sighting to the FBI, but if they came here in force and realised those red seeds cause delusions, well. Let’s just say, I might actually feel worried about now. Not as worried as my little firecracker would, though! I’m sure if the FBI sent anyone competent, she would be straight off to prison. That’s what I expected, I was amazed when she slipped through your net! What a girl. She certainly showed you up!”

“The shadows…” York started.

“They’re delusions!” Forrest laughed. “Why, I just can’t believe how obtuse you’re insisting on being. Let me slow it down for you.” He paused for effect, the smirk on his face creeping high up into his cheeks. “If the FBI had sent someone with a functioning brain to chase me around the country, then I would have stopped long ago. Instead, they sent you. Francis York Morgan, the psychotic FBI agent, fixated on the red seeds because they’re as delusional as he is! Talking to himself, shooting at nothing, panicking when a hallucination looks at him in case it tries to hurt him. Fighting his own brain harder than he ever fought crime. You’re a joke, York. A dangerous joke. I’m lucky you’re the one trying to catch me. I might be a demon, but you’re a psycho!”

York found he was struggling to catch his breath, as if he had been running. It really might be all the cigarettes, at this point. He could feel his heart pounding fast. How could he argue? Forrest was right, wasn’t he? Every night, when he tried to stay inside after dark in case he saw the shadows, every day, when he heard buzzing in his ears and tried to listen for Zach. Every time he had shot at one of the figments, without even considering where the bullet would go when it passed through the imaginary body he was trying to wound. Every long conversation with Zach when he was all alone in a room. How could he argue? What did he have left to say?

“You should have gone home already, York,” Forrest murmured. The words echoed in York’s head, and outside, appearing everywhere. He was very close by, all of a sudden, reaching out and placing a hand on York’s shoulder. A fatherly pat on the back. “You failed. You understand that, right? You failed to catch the killer. It’s all over.”

“It’s over?” York asked weakly. He was having a hard time focusing.

“It’s over,” Forrest confirmed. “You failed. And you know what that means.”

“What does it mean?” York asked.

“You’re not good enough,” Forrest answered. “You don’t deserve anything you want. You couldn’t catch the killer, you let them get away. You let them kill, and kill, all they wanted. They’re fat off your failure. If you can’t even do your job, what can you do? You’re not good enough.”

“I’m… not good enough?” York repeated.

“Sure. I’m afraid not,” Forrest said, squeezing York’s shoulder firmly. “And I know what you want. You want that Emily Wyatt. Well, she’s too good for you, York. She might have even caught the killer herself, if you hadn’t always been in the way. She’s good at her job, just a little… under polished. And you can’t be the one to polish her up, when you can’t even do your own job, can you? Oh, no. Not at all. She deserves better than that. Much better than you. You let her down. You put her at risk, letting that killer go. Now Emily’s in danger because of you. You can’t do anything to help her, because you failed. You let her down. And why, York? Because you’re not good enough. You’re incompetent. Doesn’t she deserve better than that? Don’t you love her enough to let her have better? You’re not what she needs, York. You’re a danger to her, and everyone else. You’re going to hurt someone, bad, one day, and then you’ll realise it. So… let’s just make sure you don’t, right here. Let’s put a stop to it, right now.”

“How?” York asked. Forrest, with his hand on York’s shoulder, turned him around. York realised that all the shadows had disappeared. There was nothing but the gloomy, raincloud sky beyond the tower. Together, they took a few steps forward, to the edge, and York looked down at the parking lot below.

“You have to do it, York,” Forrest said gently. “For her sake. For everyone’s sake. You have to put an end to yourself, before you do any more damage. You have to jump.”

Surely it would be quick, York thought. Over in a minute. Just a few seconds of floating on air, then nothing, as his neck snapped on the concrete. And he would never hurt anyone again. He would never risk hurting Emily. What if, in some happy future where they were together, he mistook her for a shadow in the middle of the night and attacked her? What if? If Forrest was right, if he really couldn’t tell the difference, and if he was dangerous… he should not be cruel enough to risk Emily’s life.

“Will it hurt?” York murmured, staring downward.

“Not as much as you hurt everyone else,” Forrest hissed in his ear. “Do it. You’re dangerous. You’re crazy. You’re the villain!”

“Stop!” York cried out, stumbling back from the edge, running into the centre of the platform, under the bell. “This is wrong!”

“Oh, York,” Forrest sighed darkly, glowering. “I really thought you were going to listen to sense.”

“This isn’t sense!” York shouted. “I almost fell for it…” He fixed his eyes firmly on Forrest, pointing a finger towards him. “I’m not the villain, Kaysen. _You_ are the villain! And you’re so good at it, you almost had me.”

“You really think you’re better than me?” Forrest laughed. “With all the damage you’ve done?”

“I do, and I am,” York said coolly. He allowed himself a smile. “You’re the dangerous one. You’re the villain in this story. I’m the hero.”

“Oh, the hero!” Forrest laughed, shaking with sarcastic amusement. “The great big hero who let the killer go! Is that right?”

“The hero doesn’t have to win every time,” York said firmly. “They just have to stop the villain. And that’s what I’m about to do.” Kaysen laughed again, though some of the fire was going out of it.

“Are you sure I’m really here, York? This might just be another of your hallucinations!” Forrest sneered. York shook his head.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong, Kaysen,” York said, smiling wider. “I know exactly what you are. I spend a lot of time trying to separate out reality from fantasy, as you pointed out. And now I’m good at it. I can see things for what they really are. And I can see a man in front of me right now who was afraid of me, so much so that he tried to convince me to jump to my death. Because you know I’m stronger than you are. You know how this is going to end.”

“How this is going to end!” Forrest howled, slamming a fist into one of the beams supporting the roof of the tower. “This is going to end when the last competent member of Greenvale’s police force is called out to scrape your body off the concrete! When she comes to collect you, it’ll be as a broken-boned suicide who couldn’t bear the fact he let the killer slip through his fingers! You’re going to jump from this tower, if I have to _throw_ you over it! And that’s the story everyone in Greenvale will hear, including your precious Emily! Agent York failed. He was a failure, he didn’t stop the murders, and he couldn’t live with it anymore! So he killed himself, just like people like you always do in the end! You can’t handle living, knowing you’re a monster, so you jump over _the fucking ledge!_ ” York waited for him to finish, and by the end of the speech, Forrest was panting from effort.

“No, we don’t,” York said firmly. “We win. Because I’m not what you think, Kaysen. I’m not crazy. I’m not a psycho. I’m just a man, who has learnt how to live with a few quirks, and who knows that he’s a good person despite them. I am the hero of this story. And you’ll never make me doubt that again.” He lifted the gun level with Forrest’s mouth. “It’s over.”

“It is not over yet,” Forrest growled. “You think you’re not dangerous? Then you’re a weakling. I’ll show you just what it means to be dangerous, you over-confident locust!” He lifted his leg and stomped down hard. The whole platform shook and York was forced to drop his gun in favour of ducking to his hands and knees, grabbing at the smooth floor as best he could. He heard Forrest’s dark laughter and looked up. The open air, which had been filled with clouds a moment ago, was now blocked by a hazy, wiry mesh of silvery thread. It was like rotten cotton candy and it obscured the outside world completely. The two of them were no longer part of the world, York realised. They were separated off, for the duration. For whatever Forrest had in store for him.

York got up, shaking from the tremors, and glared at Forrest. The time for gentle persuasion was over, then. Forrest had failed to goad him over the edge. Now he was ready to push him.

“You remember my note, York?” Forrest sneered. “About the star actress of this melodrama? Well, are you ready to say hello?” York waited. He had of course immediately thought of Emily, when he had seen the note. It seems he had made a mistake.

From the mass of grey that bordered them, came a shape, slowly unravelled from a wiry cocoon. As she wiped the threads off her arms, York realised that it was Anna. She was wearing a short red dress. Similar to the one that had been shoved into George’s mouth the day he died, no doubt.

“I know this isn’t really her,” York said coldly. “This is just a lie. A figment.”

“You know, York, the great thing about the human brain, is it tends to believe what it sees,” Forrest laughed. “Like with horror movies! Aren’t they fun? They’re only scary cause a part of you believes that what you’re seeing is really happening to someone! So, for example, if you were forced to watch people you cared about in pain, suffering… eventually you might choose to take the easy way out.”

“That’s your plan?” York asked. “You want me to watch as you torture shadow people? It won’t work, Kaysen. And especially not if you’re leading with the Raincoat Killer herself.”

“This isn’t the Raincoat Killer, oh no!” Forrest jeered. “This is exactly how Anna looked the night we first spoke. Before she started down the fun path. This is Anna when she could still be saved. Are you going to save her, Agent York?”

“I can’t save someone who isn’t real,” York scoffed. He had managed to evade Forrest’s attempt at brainwashing already. He was not going to crack for the sake of a fantasy version of someone who went on to murder four people.

“Anna, my firestarter!” Forrest laughed, ignoring York, and reaching towards the uncomfortably solid shape of Anna. He took her hand and twirled her around on the spot. Anna smiled warmly, a simple teenage girl again, all her sins ahead of her. “You’re going to do great things! Or, you will, if I let you. If I choose you. It’s a toss-up, really! I could have just as easily picked anyone else. She just caught my eye. And how could she not, in that dress! What do you say York?”

“That she’s an eighteen-year-old girl,” York muttered. “And men of our age should leave her alone.”

“If only that was the world, ey, York?” Forrest laughed. “I notice you haven’t been too upset by our dear Sheriff George’s death. Not after what you found out about his… hobbies. It’s just a bit of fun, surely? We all do it!”

“I can’t say I do, Kaysen,” York muttered sickly. “What George did –”

“What George did that night is why Anna got to live her dream!” Forrest snarled, grinning. “I would never have noticed her if she hadn’t been so impassioned. That brave attempt to save her friend, and the way she stood up for herself, and most of all that desire for vengeance… That’s why I had to have her. She was perfect!” Forrest twirled the phantom Anna again, and she giggled as she span, pink-cheeked like she was dancing in the high school gym.

“I doubt she thinks it was worth it,” York said. “Especially now it’s had some time to sink in.”

“Kids always make mistakes, but not all of them are as grand as hers,” Forrest offered, shrugging, smirking. “And they don’t usually pay off half as well.”

“How is this going to pay off for her? She’s a murderer. There’s no coming back from that!” York snapped. Forrest sniggered at him.

“I’m a murderer, and I enjoy every minute of it!” he purred spitefully. “But let’s say you’re right. Let’s change Anna’s fate. No deal for her. No hope. Someone else gets to play my game. And where will Anna be then…?”

“Kaysen, don’t,” York warned, but he knew he was about to be ignored.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your star actress!” Forrest roared to an imaginary audience. He shifted behind Anna and grabbed hold of her shoulders. She let out a small gasp, but, York noticed with a sinking stomach, did not attempt to fight. Of course not. This was the old Anna. Sweet, naïve. The one who had been lured into George’s basement, and not the strong Anna who had clawed her way out again. He hated to admit that revenge was what had made a difference. It was what had made her strong.

“You’re the FBI agent, right?” Anna asked him, cocking her head slightly, giving him a smile with all her teeth. “I heard you were coming.”

“Anna, step away from him,” York warned her.

“What? From, like, Mr. Kaysen?” she asked, wide-eyed. “But he’s friends with Lilly Ingram from the store! Becky, she’s my best friend, works there, and she really trusts the Ingrams. Lilly’s kind of like a mom to her sometimes!” Had she really been this sweetly innocent once, York wondered? Or was this just Forrest’s version of her, specially bred for the slaughter.

“That’s right, Anna, don’t you fret,” Kaysen purred, close to her ear, and she giggled politely. York had to glance away. He knew it wasn’t real, but he was sure that he was seeing flashes of what had happened the night Anna had been taken in by George. That made it feel real.

“Oh my god, I’m so rude sometimes! Duh!” Anna laughed lightly. “I never even asked your name. I’m Anna. You totally know that, of course.” When she smiled, it reached her eyes. If it was a fake smile, it was a good one.

“It’s York,” York answered weakly.

“Isn’t it Francis York Morgan, call me York, everybody does?” Forrest sneered, digging his fingers into Anna’s shoulders and resting his head on her shoulder. Anna giggled politely.

“That’s so funny!” Anna laughed. “I don’t know anyone else who uses their middle name like that. Everyone I know just has the one name. I don’t even know anyone with a real nickname.” She attempted a shrug, but with the fingers digging tightly into her skin, it was difficult. “It’s super cool you work for the FBI, though. It must be really dangerous.”

“Anna, why don’t you come over here?” York suggested. He hated to admit it, but he was worried for her. Kaysen’s trap was starting to work on him. It was so hard to remember she wasn’t real. How someone who wasn’t used to dismissing some things as unreal would handle it, he had no idea. Lucky him. He might actually be the best man for the job.

“I can’t, it’d be rude!” Anna brushed off his concerns. “I was meant to stay here.”

“Why, Anna? Why can’t you just go?” York breathed. “Couldn’t you avoid… everything, if you just left right now? If that night… never happened.”

“What night, sorry? Am I totally blanking on something…?” she asked, smiling. York wanted to stop it from happening. He wanted to save her. Not like the other victims who had died. He wanted to save her from making the mistake that started it. From trusting Forrest Kaysen.

“Now, Anna, my firecracker,” Kaysen said smoothly. “Just hold on. Agent York is awfully busy, and you can’t take up too much of his time. Besides, we’re waiting for someone, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yeah!” Anna agreed happily. “That’s right!”

“Who, Anna?” York asked. “Who are you waiting for?”

“My new boyfriend!” she told him excitedly, clasping her hands. Now this had to be Forrest’s work. Her enthusiasm to share that piece of news could not be real. “He’s so great. He’s going to look after me. And I’m gonna look after him, too!”

“Don’t,” York sighed. As if it would change anything.

“You’re going to do right by him, aren’t you?” Forrest asked. Anna nodded, smiling widely. “Well, I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I bet that boy would go to pieces without you now!”

“Yeah, probably,” Anna agreed. “I mean, I think he really just… needed someone to talk to, you know? And so did I. I used to write everything down in my diary, even stuff that I couldn’t tell Becky, and he would do the same. He always writes stuff he can’t tell his dad in his diary. It’s so sad. But now it’s not! We’re like… made for each other!”

“How sweet is that?” Forrest sneered. “Teenage repression finds an outlet. Two lost souls united. You hear that? Made for each other! Well, Anna. Let’s see just exactly what it is you’re made of!” Anna gasped as Forrest’s fingernails drilled into her skin. She made no attempt to escape, outside of some mild squirming. York took a breath. He did not want to watch this. It wasn’t real, though. He had to keep reminding himself of that. She wasn’t real.

“Ow, geez, careful!” Anna complained, looking down at the fingers in her arms, which had started to draw blood in places. Forrest did not even consider stopping. With a sudden sweep of his arms, he tore his fingernails away, ripping a patch of skin from each arm as he did so. Anna cried out in shock, her hands going protectively to the torn skin on her shoulders. Blood pumped from beneath her hands, soaking them red in seconds. York was reminded of his last dream.

“This is what happens to Anna when I don’t pick her, York!” Forrest laughed. “She’s nothing without me! Nothing but a bloody prop!”

“What? Why?!” Anna cried out. Dummy though she was, a conjured illusion designed to draw sympathy, she still felt alive. Probably, she didn’t even realise she wasn’t the real Anna, York thought.

“Stop it, Kaysen!” York snapped. “This is meaningless!”

“It’s not meaningless, it’s fun!” Forrest countered, leering. “That’s the only thing that means anything!” Anna was quietly tearing up as she clutched the bloody patches on her arms. Sniffing weakly. Forrest snatched up one of her arms and yanked it up at her side.

“Owww!” she moaned. York watched painfully as Forrest drew out his tongue and licked the skin before biting down hard into the flesh. Anna squirmed and cried. York wanted to stop it. He wanted to leap forward and catch Anna in his arms, but he knew what would happen. She would disappear, and he would be sent sailing over the edge of the tower, suddenly back in the real world just in time to hit the ground headfirst.

“You taste just like that first sin, Anna,” Forrest murmured at her, dabbing his lips with his tongue. “That’s what you are. That’s what makes it fun. Find them when they’re innocent, and show them how to kill. Those are the ones that taste best.” Anna whined like an animal with its leg in a trap, and York felt the need to cover his mouth. Forrest dug his fingers into her throat and squeezed hard enough to bring the blood, little red tracks oozing like tears from the wounds.

“Why…?” she cried again.

“Ask Agent York,” Forrest laughed. “He’s the one who’s meant to protect you. And he still can, if he wants. York! I’ll trade you. I’ll let her go if you just come over here… and jump.”

“She’s not real, Kaysen. I won’t fall for it,” York said, as forcefully as he could muster.

“What…? Please,” Anna moaned. “Make him let me go! I never did anything… I don’t even know why I’m here… please. Please, Agent York. Aren’t you a police officer? Please.” York shook his head to shake off the sick feeling. She was not real. She wasn’t. Even if she didn’t realise it.

“You heard him, Anna,” Forrest sniggered. “Too bad. I liked you better than any of the others.” Anna fixed her gaze on York sorrowfully as Forrest bit down on her arm again. She winced, but her eyes never left his. The only thing York could do was offer the respect of looking back. With nails and teeth, Forrest took her apart. The fact that she never bled out betrayed her unreality, but the look in her eyes was haunting all the same. York never looked away. When Anna had been broken down to a limbless, red streamer, she let out a low sound.

“Can you tell him I’m sorry?” she moaned.

“Tell who, what?” York asked. He had almost forgotten how to speak for a moment.

“Tell Michael I’m sorry I got killed,” Anna asked weakly. “I could have… I mean, we could have… he needed someone and I just… let this happen instead.”

“Anna, it’s not your fault!” York cried out. As he did so, Forrest went for the final blow, and snapped Anna’s neck in a single movement. As soon as he did so, what was left of her disappeared. As if it was never there. There was not a single drop of blood left on the ground to indicate otherwise.

“Not her fault, huh?” Forrest laughed. “And here I thought she was a murderer! I guess you’re a bleeding heart at… heart, isn’t that right, York?” York glowered back, unimpressed with Forrest’s show.

“It wasn’t really her,” he said in response.

“Well, it was, in a way,” Forrest argued. “In terms of personality, that’s who it was. Not the same physical body, maybe, but those are a little overrated, I always think. That was her, all right! Torn to scraps, because you were selfish!” He sniggered into his hands, apparently seeing his display as the height of amusement.

“Disgusting,” York muttered. Forrest shrugged, unable to completely stop himself from laughing.

“All right, all right, well done York,” he said. “You passed. Round one. Ready for round two?”

“What?” York mumbled.

“Round two!” Forrest laughed. “We’re not done yet!” He stretched out his arms and a moment later, each hand was taken by a new shadow. On one side, Thomas. Dressed in floor length red velvet, hair lightly curled, and lips reddened. He stared idly back at York, distracted, as Forrest clutched his hand tightly. On the other side, was Emily. She was wearing the dress she had been wearing the night she and York had cooked together. She was fresh-faced and smiling, staring across at York, barely noticing that her hand was being gripped by another.

“No…” York muttered. Forrest nodded.

“Until you’re ready to jump!” he cried out with laughter. “We can stop anytime you like, just say the word… and take the plunge!”

“I won’t,” York moaned.

“Then stand back,” Forrest hissed. York covered his eyes, but it made little difference. He still had to hear the screams. They sounded so real. It was almost worse with his eyes closed. It was harder to forget they weren’t really there. He lay on the floor of the platform, scrunched into a ball, eyes tightly shut, and felt as if he was underground. As if he had been buried, and just up above him he could hear them dying. Slowly. Brutally. Every rip and tear and lesion magnified for effect. Emily, Thomas… their voices, their real voices, because there was no difference. It wasn’t real, he told himself. But it sounded real. It felt real. And it lasted forever.

“You sure are a tough nut to crack, York,” Forrest laughed eventually. York felt as if he had been buried for years. He did not emerge from his spot on the floor. It was still a trap.

“Is it over yet, Zach?” he mumbled.

“And what’s this?” Forrest sneered. “Talking to yourself. How heroic!”

“Zach… I’m talking to Zach,” York mumbled. “Zach’s always with me.”

“York and Zach, how touching,” Forrest laughed. Then, York heard him draw in a sharp breath. “York and Zach… he repeated. Francis… Zach Morgan.”

“No,” York muttered. “I’m Francis. He’s Zach.”

“Oh, no!” Forrest insisted. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you!”

“Recognise me from where?” York murmured. “We’ve never met. Not before now.”

“We haven’t, but I know you!” Forrest laughed. He sounded different. Confident. Victorious. “Oh, this is too perfect! What a conclusion, ladies and gentlemen!”

“What are you saying, Kaysen? How do you know me?” York muttered, withdrawing his head and looking up. Forrest pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“I knew your parents,” Forrest answered and York shivered, reverberating deep in the marrow of his bones. He began to shake his head, but the light dimmed around them, and suddenly Forrest was gone. He was alone, sitting in the middle of the platform, which suddenly stretched out further, out of sight. The grey wiry fog solidified into walls. The ground under his hands now felt soft. Like carpet. He was in a living room.

“Hello, honey.” York spun awkwardly around on his hands and knees. He stopped dead. Behind him, standing together, each with an arm around the other’s waist, were his parents. York blinked numbly.

“We have a lot to talk about,” his father said.


	66. Parenthood

Chapter Sixty-Six. [ Parenthood ]

Slowly, York got to his feet. Matching up the faces with the ones in his memory felt odd. The parents he remembered were faded with age like an old photograph. He could barely make out their features in his mind and, it occurred to him now, he did not have any actual photos of either of them. He must have lost any he had once had along the way. And now here they were. Unfaded at last.

His mother had dark hair, darker than his. A soft face and a gentle smile. Her eyes were a dark blue. She had the feeling of a teacher or a bank clerk to her. Someone who was there to help you. As he looked at her for the first time in over twenty-five years, he was hit in the gut by memories of her handing him cookies and stroking his hair as they watched television together on rainy days. Tiny, blurred snippets of comforts and reminders, in her voice. All of it coming back at once.

His father looked more familiar, and it took York a moment to realise it was because he looked like him. He had tousled brown hair that was close to the style York’s fell into the few times he had let it grow out in recent years. His eyes were green, over-saturated and darker than York’s, but similar. Reflective of his own. His father’s nose, the shape of his face. It was like looking at a photo of himself. In full colour, finally.

They stood before him in, he recognised, the clothes they had been wearing on that final day. A white dress for his mother, and a work suit for his father. The details were all correct. It was as if he had gone back in time. To the day Xander and Valentine Morgan had died.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Valentine said, stepping forward and stretching out her hands. York got to his feet and numbly reached out to take them. She felt solid, and real. Her hands with that soft, flour-specked skin he suddenly realised he had always remembered.

“Mom…” York murmured. The word had not left his mouth for a long time. Not like this, at least. He chose not to speak about his parents. There was never any reason to say it.

“Oh, honey. I missed you,” she whispered, tugging him gently by the hands towards her, until he was close enough for her to wrap her arms around. York felt himself gasp. It was so unreal, and yet it felt so familiar. As if he had never been away.

“Son, we have to talk,” Xander said. York turned slightly to better look at his father. There was no smile on his face, but his eyes softened when he looked back at York.

“I’ve wanted to ask so many things,” York breathed. His father nodded.

“And I’ve wanted to give you answers. You deserve them.” As he said it, Valentine shifted and drew back. York had to stop himself from reaching out and scrabbling to hold onto her. The desperation had come from nowhere.

“What happened on that day?” York asked. He felt he had to ask it now, quickly, before the opportunity was gone again. As it so easily could be, at any moment.

“Before I can tell you that, I have to tell you what happened before,” Xander said. “Why don’t we sit?” York found he was being led towards a sofa. It was the one they had had in the old living room, before his parents died. The three of them sat, York in the middle, feeling smaller than he had in decades.

“Do you want anything to eat, honey?” Valentine asked, gently patting York’s shoulder. She had overfed him as a child, he remembered. There was always something sweet waiting in the kitchen.

“No…” he murmured. He wanted answers, that was all.

“When you were young, your mother and I started to have problems,” Xander began, seamlessly, as if he was a recording that had been waiting to be played. “I was away for work a lot. It was very demanding, and it affected both of us. We tried not to let you see that side of things, your mother especially. But there was a strain.”

“Ah, yes,” York agreed softly. “I suppose that’s how it often is, with couples. I see that now.”

“Exactly, of course you see it,” Xander said. York had not remembered his voice clearly at all. It was not as stiff and serious as he had thought. He had almost turned it into a caricature in his memory, apparently. “During a case… a long, unpleasant stint outside of Philadelphia, I ran into a man. It was a stressful case. We ended up drinking together, on and off, while I was still in town. Became friends, of a sort. I wouldn’t spend my time with a man like that at home, but during that case he became something of a confidante of mine. I told him a lot on our evenings out, about Valentine, and all our problems. He helped me laugh it off. So we were friends, after that. He told me he travelled for work too, so I said to call if he was ever in my town. We left it like that.”

“Oh… all right,” York said. He was far too overwhelmed to process what he was hearing.

“Kaysen, I called him,” Xander went on, and York went cold at the name. “His name was Forrest, but… eh, it never sounded right. Kaysen it was. We didn’t speak for months and I let him slip my mind. When he called, he said he was going to be in the area. I invited him over. Sent you to your grandparents’ house for the night, and the three of us had dinner. He was taken with Valentine. Said she was a classic beauty.”

“Right… yes,” York muttered, numb.

“He told me something about a big payoff when I asked how long he’d be around,” Xander said. “Didn’t think about it too much after that. We went for a few drinks, I told him more about how things were. I had thought things were starting to get better at home, but talking to him made me feel like not. I started to realise I wasn’t so happy.”

“After talking to Kaysen?” York asked. “He made you feel that way?”

“He made me think I was noticing a lot of things that were always there,” Xander said. “Before too long, your mother and I were arguing more and more. Only at night, so you didn’t hear, she insisted. Lotta angry whispering whenever I came home late. It was like a bottle getting shaken up. It happened over a couple of weeks, really, and I barely noticed how bad things had got so fast.”

“Was Kaysen still there?” York asked. Xander curled his lip.

“He was still there, all right,” he admitted. “I stopped asking why he didn’t seem to be leaving, cause I was so glad to have someone I could talk to about it. Couldn’t talk to anyone at work. Some of them knew Valentine. Some of their families came round sometimes. Didn’t want to risk them letting slip and, next thing you know, my son’s asking me why his parents are fighting every night. No, no. Kaysen was the one I could talk to, and boy was he happy to listen.”

“I’m sure,” York muttered. His mother gently squeezed his shoulder, keeping her arm around him.

“He asked me questions,” Xander went on. “Began planting all these ideas in my head, and they sounded so right. The things I began accusing Valentine of, I still don’t understand. They sounded so right. Every day I’d come home and I’d see her sweet face and it was as if there was this voice by my ear telling me it was all a front. I started to hate the sight of it, just cause I knew it was a lie. I wanted to rip that sweet smile back and see what was underneath.”

“This isn’t what I want to hear,” York whispered. Valentine squeezed him tighter, holding him firmly, as if he was going to be swept away the moment she let her guard down.

“It got inside me,” Xander groaned. “All this dirt, just building up in me! Every whisper was like a new mound. The only way to let it out was to scream and spit it out, right at her. Everything was going wrong. It was like my soul had been soiled. There was no way to wash it off.”

“It was very difficult,” Valentine soothed. The twisted words did not touch her. She was calm. She began to idly stroke York’s hair, as she used to do, long ago. “We tried to hold ourselves together.”

“We tried, and we didn’t,” Xander said. “I remember one night, calling Kaysen up late and getting him to meet me. I told him it was over. Had to get out of there. I was gonna leave her. Walk out the door, never look back. I knew she would take good enough care of you, so there was no reason for me to stick around and keep tearing everything up. I thought he’d agree. Expected him to offer me a couch or something while I found a place. No such luck.”

“No such luck…?” York numbly repeated.

“He seemed angry,” Xander explained. “Thought I was a quitter. Fed me this story about women, about how he knew what it was to get cheated on and end up on the curb outside your own house. Doubt any of that was true, but in the moment, it made so much sense! He got me all angry again. No fucking way was I going to walk out the door! After everything I did for my family? I work my fingers to the bone chasing down those slug trails left by the worst of humanity, and I’m the one who has to leave? No way! No way was that fair.” York felt himself shiver. “I was all riled up all night. I didn’t sleep. Got up to get ready for work, and it seemed so pointless. Why was I going out there again, when I didn’t have anyone to go to work for? I used to like my job, even if it was stressful, but now… seemed like there was no point to anything.”

“Ah yes, that morning,” Valentine said softly. “You didn’t have school, honey. It was the holidays. I got up early to cook breakfast. Do you remember?”

“Yes…” York murmured, the single word struggling to escape his throat. He dug his nails into the sofa cushion, bracing himself.

“It was a warm day. I had the window open,” Valentine added distractedly. “You remember how our house was at the end of the street, honey? How it looked out onto the woods?”

“Yes,” York said again. The smell of the trees returned, filling his nose with spring. Their house was out of the way. Far enough from the neighbours that they lived in their own world. Like living in a forest, York remembered. He had thought that, as a child. They practically lived in the woods.

“When I came downstairs that morning, I saw her there, in the living room,” Xander said, returning to his story. “She was beautiful in that white dress, like an angel. A perfect, glimmering angel. God, when we first met, that’s how I saw her. Those big blue eyes were like the view into heaven. She was young when we met. Only twenty when we got married and had you, and I was eight years older. I know people thought it wasn’t smart. Her mother warned her it wasn’t gonna last forever, not to dig in too deep. I knew they were wrong, though. I knew she was the one. Any time I looked into those eyes all I saw was the clear blue, and I never felt more peaceful. And that morning she was there in the white dress and it was like it hadn’t been a day since we got married.”

“Then… it wasn’t you,” York breathed. “There was someone else. There… there was someone else! Kaysen! Kaysen was there that morning!” Valentine stroked his hair, making circles with her soft fingers.

“She turned to look at me and gave me this sweet smile,” Xander said, his own face turning into a smile at the memory. “My Valentine. So sweet, so good. I loved her from the day we met, I know I did. Never doubted it before, even when things were hard. It was only when he came into our lives. Only then. He sowed his seeds in me. Might as well have torn open my chest and ripped my heart straight out. Cause she was my heart.”

“When did Kaysen get there?” York asked.

“No, son,” Xander said. “I looked at that smile on her face, I raised my arm, and I shot her in the face. Knocked the smile straight off.” York stopped, the blood in his veins no longer moving, his heart paused between beats. He had to have misheard.

“What?” he asked blankly.

“I shot your mother in the face,” Xander repeated. “That smile, it just made me think about how far we’d fallen. How I didn’t feel like a day had gone by, and it had. She wasn’t the same woman. She’d gone rotten. I had to get rid of her. Not Valentine, but that person in front of me. The one pretending to be her. She was the problem.”

“No!” York cried out. “No, that isn’t right. That didn’t happen.”

“It was too late, son,” Xander sighed. “I’d been poisoned, you see. My love was taken from me and handed back soiled. All the little problems your mother and I had were swept outta my hands, and into a megaphone, screaming back at me whenever I closed my eyes. It was all him. Everything I told him, he turned back around at me, until I didn’t know what was what. He changed me. He spoiled me. He made me into a killer.”

“Kaysen. You trusted Kaysen and he convinced you to do it,” York whispered. Valentine’s arm tightened protectively around his shoulder.

“Yes, he did,” Xander agreed. “I did it for him. Because of him. He never told me to shoot her, he didn’t have to. I had a gun in my hand and a lie in my head. But you know what’s funny? The second she fell back on the ground, it was gone. It was all gone. I was suddenly free. The second she was dead, I knew I’d been wrong the whole time. I knew everything Kaysen had fed me was a lie.”

“You knew…” York repeated weakly. Xander nodded.

“I knew it,” he said. “And I was standing there, looking at her, thinking about what I’d done, when I heard you on the stairs. I’m ashamed to say that I’d practically forgotten you existed. Now I’d wrecked two people. The only two people who really mattered to me. You and I were never close, son. I was planning on jumping in more when you were older, god knows I didn’t know how to relate to you when you were that age. I saw a good future for us, once. Wanted to put you through school, see what you grew up to be good at. I knew I’d be proud. But I needed your mother for that to happen. She was the one who knew what she was doing. She raised you. What did I do? Not much, as it turns out. All I did was rip it up. Ruin all her hard work. You know sometimes, out in the field, you see guys who kill their families or their wives, and then they won’t let you take them in alive. They gotta die. Seems stupid, doesn’t it? They did it to themselves, and now they decide they can’t cope? I always saw that as the lowest of the low. Not even able to stand up in their own mess. Not that day. I got it.” York stared at him. He had no words.

“Valentine’s parents were good people, son,” Xander carried on, his voice growing thick with an inexpressible emotional weight. “I knew they would look after you better than I could. The last thing you needed was me, after what I did. You deserved better. So much better.”

“Dad, I…” York murmured. Xander lifted a hand to stop him.

“No, you did,” he insisted, struggling with it. “I was a… a… a fucking abomination. I let those lies get into my head, and I destroyed the most beautiful thing in the whole world. Took your mother from you. I was beneath you and the future you deserved. I thought… the last thing I thought was that, if I was gone too, at least you’d only remember the parts of me that were good. I wouldn’t grow to become someone you couldn’t look in the eye when you came to visit me in prison. That was the last gift I could leave you with. I had taken your mother away. I didn’t see it as taking your father away, too. He was already gone. He died with her.”

“I came downstairs,” York said. “I saw you both.”

“I know,” Xander said. “You saw her and you looked so heartbroken, all I wanted was to hug you, but I lost that right. It would have been too confusing. So I tried to think of what I could say to make it make sense. I don’t know if I got it right. I didn’t have long to think, and I was never much for words. But I tried.”

“At times we must purge things from this world, because they should not exist. Even if it means losing someone that you love,” York murmured.

“You remember it,” Xander breathed, smiling slightly.

“You meant yourself,” York said.

“After what I’d let myself do? Yes,” Xander agreed. “I knew I was losing the last thing I loved, you, but I had to pay for what I did. I no longer deserved to exist. I didn’t even want to, without her. So I made the only choice I could. I went to join her.”

“I wanted it to be different,” York said. “I wanted there to have been someone else there. I wanted you… not to have killed her!” His mother brushed his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t noticed.

“Can I say it wasn’t my fault?” Xander asked himself. “Just cause he was there, whispering things in my ear, poisoning me against her? I don’t know. I still did it. He aimed my hand, and I pulled the trigger. It’s not easy, sorting out something like that.”

“It’s what he does,” York snapped. “He takes people and corrupts them, he… he plants the seeds of evil in their hearts. Kaysen is the reason for all of this.”

“Yes, honey,” Valentine said, turning his head towards her, smiling gently back at him as if this was a debate over where to eat dinner. “But he also gave us this.”

“What do you mean?” York asked her.

“He respects you, honey, after everything you’ve done,” Valentine told him. “So he gave us back to you. It’s all right. It’s all over now. You’re with us. You’re safe.”

“How?” York asked. “You’re not… not real. This is like a dream.”

“If we’re a dream, how do we know everything that happened?” she countered, laughing lightly. That was true, York admitted. This was more than a dream. The facts fit. This was real, in some sense.

“We died on that day, son, you know that’s true,” Xander said, and York turned to look at him. “But just because we died, it doesn’t mean we’re gone. There’s more than demons in this world. There’s angels too.”

“Is that what you are?” York asked. He got no answer.

“This is a gift, honey,” Valentine said, stroking his back. “We’ve been waiting for you all this time. You don’t realise how hard it’s been. I missed you so much, every moment, every second. I needed you back. I never got to say goodbye.”

“We can now,” York murmured. “Is that what this means? I know what happened, and I can finally say goodbye?”

“No,” Xander said. “No, it doesn’t mean that.”

“We don’t want to say goodbye, honey,” Valentine whispered. “We love you. It’s been long enough.”

“Then… what do you want?” York asked. He looked from one of his parents to the other. Their expectant faces as clear as if they had never gone away.

“We want to be a family again,” Xander said, firmly, closer to the voice York remembered. “Now that it’s all out in the open. It’s the right time. We want you to be with us.”

“It’s impossible,” York said.

“No, honey,” Valentine breathed. “No, it’s not. You need to make a choice. You need to make the right choice.”

“What?” York asked, frowning, confused, and unhappy. “What do I… mom?”

“Go and pick it up,” she whispered, gently prodding York up from the sofa. He stood. She gestured with her head to the space behind the sofa, and he followed her gaze, stepping numbly forward. He felt disorientated, like he had just been swimming and come up too quickly. When he reached the spot she had gestured him to, he saw it there, on the floor. The gun. He had dropped it earlier, and it had sat here during their whole story. Waiting for him. When he picked it up, it was cool in his hand, and as he turned around, he saw things from the same angle as his father had, in those last minutes.

His parents got up, stepping towards him with soft smiles. His mother took his free hand and squeezed it tightly.

“It’s time,” she said.

“It is, son,” Xander agreed. “Time to make the right choice.”

York lifted the gun. He knew exactly what was being asked of him. He knew why. He had been lost for years. His father had been wrong. He hadn’t been all right without them. He had always missed them. Ever since that day, everything had been about it. His whole career at the FBI was a way of finding out what had happened, and keeping it from happening to anyone else. And now he had to admit he wasn’t even capable of doing that.

“You let him take someone else,” Valentine said, as if reading his mind. Which maybe she had, he thought. “You let him ruin that girl, and then you couldn’t stop her from killing people.”

“Her and so many others,” Xander added. “You can’t ever stop him. He’s stronger than you. Just like he was stronger than me.”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life watching him go from place to place, turning people into monsters?” Valentine asked, looking at York with sympathy. “I would never want that for you.”

“No, it’s not right,” Xander said. “There’s nothing left for you out there. There’s no more you can do, and no reason to stay. You deserve to be free. With us. What are you waiting for?” York hesitated.

“Emily…” he said at last. “What about Emily?”

“I know you love her,” Xander said, placing a hand tightly on York’s shoulder. “But you have to know it isn’t going to work out. Not after everything you’ve seen. That’s the thing, son. You’re poisoned, just like I was. Since the day we died, the roots have been spreading in you, and any day they could burst forth. And you’ll turn out just like the rest of us, who’ve been touched by him.”

“I hoped I wouldn’t,” York muttered. “I want Emily to be safe.”

“What did I tell you?” Xander asked. “At times we must purge things from this world, because they should not exist. Even if it means losing someone that you love. I know you love her. I know you wish it could be different. But you’re soiled. And you can’t keep pretending differently.”

“I’m… soiled,” York murmured. “But…”

“Make the right choice,” Valentine said. She rested a hand on the gun and gave it a pat, before withdrawing. “You have to make the right choice.” York pressed the gun against his temple, the cold metal circle burning the skin.

“I want it to be over,” he said softly. “And I want Emily to be safe.”

“We know you do,” Xander said. “And we’re so proud of you, Zach.” York’s hand froze. He let the gun slip away from his head.

“Zach?” he repeated. Xander stared blankly at him.

“Yes, Zach,” he said. “I’m so proud of who you became.”

“Who I became,” York said. The gun fell from his hand entirely, his fingers no longer focused enough to hold it. Who he became. Who he was. Zach. The day his parents had died, Zach was there. He remembered. He remembered going and sitting in his bedroom closet, in the dark, and hearing the comforting voice. Knowing there was someone looking out for him. Zach. Zach had been there for him. But… no. That was not what had happened.

The memory came back clearly for the first time since it had happened. He was there, in the dark, huddled against the wall and crying. He had repeated over and over again that it wasn’t true. His parents were joking, somehow, and they were fine. Then, he started to hear a voice. A voice saying that it would be all right. It was bad now, but it would be all right. He was going to get through it. He was going to be okay. He was going to be okay. The voice had saved him. Zach’s voice. It had been there for him in the dark, and it had kept him alive. It had been Zach’s voice, certainly. But it had been coming out of his mouth.

York remembered at last. He had been the one speaking in the darkness, whispering to himself that he was going to be all right. He had been the one saying it, over and over. He had spoken for so long, that it felt strange to stop. When someone came to rescue him from the dark, he didn’t stop speaking. He kept telling himself it was going to be all right. Then, when he was told to stop saying it over and over, he said it in his head. It became a mantra in the back of his mind. The voice from the darkness. The one that never went away again. Zach’s voice. His voice. One and the same.

What had been simple comfort as a child had grown over time. By the time he was a teenager, it was a constant presence in his mind. By then, he had done everything he could to forget the feelings of that day. It was buried so deeply, that he could never remember when he had first heard Zach’s voice in his head. He could never remember why. The memories were so completely bottled, that he started to doubt whether or not Zach had always been there. He forgot that it was his own voice, his own strength. The part of him that had split off to protect him when there was no-one else to say what he needed to hear.

His parents had always called him Zach. He remembered that now. Francis had never suited him, and Zach just felt more natural. More like him. So much so, that when they died, he didn’t want anyone else to call him it again. His grandparents had been met by screaming matches whenever they called his name. Until they no longer did. But Francis still didn’t suit him. And it was still the name his parents had chosen. He wondered where York had come from. That part was lost to memory. He must have chosen it not long after his parents died, and almost the whole year that he had first spent in his grandparents’ house was a blank. He had become York. To put the past behind him. To forget his parents. And the only thing he had kept of the boy he had been back then was a voice, in the darkness of his mind, to tell him he was going to be all right.

He had made himself forget it all, and the only time Zach could try and make him remember was in his dreams.

“I remember. I know who Zach is!” York said suddenly. He blinked. His parents were still by his side, waiting for him to make his choice. But the gun was on the floor, where he had dropped it.

“Well, of course you do, honey,” his mother laughed. “You’re Zach.”

“No,” York said. “No, I was Zach. And I know that he would want me to go with you. I want to, but… I can’t. I’ve changed. I have to, for Emily. Because she needs me, too. She needs York. And that’s who I am now.”

“York,” Xander scoffed. “You can’t change who you are, son. You can’t escape from your family.”

“We make our own families,” York said firmly. “And we can’t make them out of the dead.”

“I told you to make the right choice…” Valentine moaned. She clasped her head, and York watched as blood droplets began to bead on her forehead. As if she was dying again, in slow motion.

“I can’t support this, Zach,” Xander said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this disappointed.”

“Then acknowledge that you’re disappointed in York. Not Zach,” York said. He ducked down and grabbed the gun, as the two of them snatched at him. He struggled backwards, feeling their fingers clawing at him, tearing at his jacket and trying to drag him back.

“You can’t escape fate!” Valentine wailed, her face reddening, crumbling. It was suddenly punched inwards, scattering in bits at the back.

“There’s no such thing. We make our own,” York said. Valentine collapsed on the floor, her body bursting into a cascade of red chunks that oozed towards his feet. He stepped backwards, in vain. His feet were soaked in an instant.

“You had to make the right choice. It was so simple. Why couldn’t you make the right choice?” Xander asked. He stepped towards York, over the remains of the shadow Valentine, past the edge of the sofa. York raised the gun.

“This is the right choice,” he said, and fired. Xander took the shot in the head, falling backwards just as he had done before, when he had been real. York jerked an arm up to shield his eyes, and when he looked back a moment later, they were both gone. It was all gone, in fact. He was back at the clock tower, and Forrest Kaysen was there, staring back at him with what almost seemed to be pride.

“I’ll admit,” he laughed. “Most people can’t handle ten minutes of that. There aren’t many like you, Zach.” York frowned.

“There are plenty like _me_ ,” he said coldly. “It’s because I have Zach with me as well that I know how to be strong. I realise that now. Alone, we’d be nothing. We are only strong as long as we have each other.” Forrest laughed to himself. Nothing York had done so far had mattered. This fight had not yet begun, as far as Forrest was concerned. So far, he was untouched. Only York had been playing.

“I feel that way sometimes,” Forrest said. “Nothing like a companion you can rely on.” It occurred to York that the Dalmatian that Forrest always had at his heels, Willie, was absent. It was the first time he had seen the man without his dog. Odd.

“Yes, exactly,” York agreed proudly. “And because Zach and I are together, there’s nothing you can do to hurt me. You can’t poison us both. The other will always be there, waiting to take over.”

“Then I guess I’ll keep you here forever!” Forrest laughed. “I’ll turn you into a doll and put you in my pocket. You can come with me, and whenever I get bored, I’ll bring you out and play a little more! Is that how it’s going to be? Are you going to make me drag you around until you finally crack?”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary,” York said, smiling. Forrest glared.

“And why, exactly, do you think that?” he asked. It was the last thing he said. A second later, Emily’s bullet went through his skull.


	67. Inner Demons

Chapter Sixty-Seven. [ Inner Demons ]

“You have to admit, Zach. We’re in good hands with her here.”

As Forrest collapsed onto the ground, Emily ran across the platform towards York. When she reached him she stopped dead, staring down at Forrest’s body on the ground and blinking in surprise.

“I didn’t even think…” she stammered. “Was he…? He was attacking you. I had to.”

“What did you see, Emily?” York asked. She had seemed completely assured in the moment he had seen her appear behind Forrest. Now she was doubting herself.

“I don’t really know,” Emily breathed heavily. “A lot of things that didn’t make sense and he, Forrest… It wasn’t really him. It was like something else. All I knew was that he was going to hurt you, and… and… I had to stop it.” York recalled what Forrest had said about the people who came after him. The law enforcers who ended up running into him tended to think they were losing their minds. York was not pleased that Emily had had to go through that, even if it was momentary.

“He was,” York assured her. “He was trying to hurt me, and he wasn’t… he wasn’t human, Emily. I know that doesn’t sound right.”

“It wouldn’t…” she said uncertainly. “Not before this case. But I think I can believe it now.” York smiled a little to himself. Emily was more adaptable than most. He was glad to see it.

Suddenly, there was a gurgling sound from the ground, and Emily jumped. Both of them turned swiftly to look at Forrest. He twitched, his hand grasping for something, and his head jerked towards them. Blood came from his mouth when he tried to speak, but his eyes fixed on them with hatred.

“How did he survive that?” Emily cried out. “I thought I hit him right in the head!”

“I told you, he’s not human,” York muttered. “But not invulnerable.” He knelt down close to Forrest’s eye line and hissed, “the villain never dies after the first shot in a horror movie, either.”

“Zach… Morgan,” Forrest spat, clots of blood spraying York’s knees. “You think it’s over… you’ll never… be done with me. I wrecked you… What I did… tore you in half.”

“No,” York said, shaking his head. “You didn’t tear me in half. You doubled me. There are two of us. And we’re stronger for it.”

“How can you… be so sure… you won’t turn out like your father?” Forrest sneered. York glanced over his shoulder at Emily, who stared down at the scene in shock.

“How can any of us?” he said. He stood up again, checking his gun, and putting another bullet into Forrest’s head. The second one finished it. Forrest’s head sunk at once, onto the floor. It did not stop there. A moment later, he began to slouch, until his body was melting, dispersing into a thick puddle. He melted away like boiling butter, popping and bubbling until all that was left was a wide, dark stain. A final confirmation that he had not been human.

“Oh, god,” Emily mumbled. “This feels like a nightmare.”

“I know,” York said. He tried his best to sound comforting, though Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot where Forrest had so recently been. “It’ll be all right. It’s really over now. Now that he’s gone, it’s over.”

“You said there was something else…” Emily breathed. She had clearly been holding her breath, and only let it out now. “This is what it was. What exactly happened?”

“You’ll have to bear with me, Emily. I know how this sounds.” York took hold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Forrest Kaysen was something inhuman. A demon, I suppose. He spent years trawling the country for potential victims for his manipulation. When he found someone, he dropped hints about the red seeds, and persuaded them to kill. The red seeds murders I’ve investigated up until now were all instigated by him. Anna was the latest in a series of people unlucky or desperate enough to think that what he was offering was anything other than a devil’s contract. She fell for it. Like so many others.”

“But… wow. That’s…” Emily mumbled. “There was always something off about him. I didn’t think it could be… anything like this.”

“It’s not what you’d normally assume about someone,” York agreed. “I let him fool me for too long as well. We’re not the only ones. I hate to think what he had planned for the Ingrams.”

“Oh, god, you’re right,” Emily sighed. “Those poor boys. They don’t deserve this.”

“They’ll never have to know,” York said. “As far as everyone’s concerned, Kaysen just left town on his own. It’s not as if he left much behind.” He nudged the stain with the tip of his shoe.

“Except at his hotel room,” Emily countered. “Maybe we should… go and look?”

“See what our former friend left for us,” York agreed. “All right, Emily. And for once, I think I’d like you to drive.”

♦ ♦ ♦

In the car, York got the impression that Emily was holding her tongue. No doubt she still had a lot of questions and was restraining herself for his sake, in case he was still too shaken from his experience. He knew how curiosity got to Emily, and decided to open up the conversation with a question of his own.

“I tried calling you this morning,” he said. “I thought he might have… taken you. Where were you?”

“At work, York,” Emily scoffed, smirking. “Where you should have been. I thought it was strange when you didn’t come in this morning. I knew, after everything that happened yesterday, it was going to be a hard day. It wasn’t like you not to show up.”

“No, I would have liked to have done, but something came up,” York teased. “What time is it, anyway? I have no idea how long I was gone.” Emily glanced at the car clock.

“It’s already two,” she said. “I tried to give you some time this morning, but when it got to lunch time and you still hadn’t arrived, I worried. I went to the diner, and you weren’t there. I called Thomas, and he hadn’t seen you. I ended up driving around town looking for you. I finally saw your car outside the community centre, and wondered if you were setting up for the town meeting tomorrow. Thomas mentioned it. It seemed strange for you to be here today, though.”

“So you came to rescue me,” York finished, smiling. “My knight in shining… beige.” Emily laughed. She couldn’t help it.

“I was worried!” she said, scolding him with a smile on her face. “And I was right to be, don’t forget! I expected you to be feeling low, not… fighting a demon.” York frowned to himself at the comment. He hated to think what would have happened if Emily had not come to find him. Maybe, given enough time, Forrest’s plan would have worked, and he would have ended up jumping from the tower just to make it stop.

“This case has defied expectations,” he said at last.

“It has,” Emily agreed. “And I hope you’re going to tell me exactly what happened at the clock tower later. I want to know every word.” York smiled sadly to himself. Maybe not every word. Just the highlights. They reached the hotel, and Emily parked them outside. As they walked in, Polly caught sight of them from the front desk and called out.

“Mr. Morgan! Miss. Wyatt!” she cried happily. “How are you?”

“Fine, Polly,” Emily said, walking over. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, fine. The same as ever,” Polly answered. “At my age, the days do start to blur together. It’s not like your life, where there is plenty of excitement still to be had.” She smiled and looked pointedly from Emily to York. “Still hard at work, I presume?”

“Yes, Polly,” York said. “Actually, we need the key to Kaysen’s room here. He’s… missing.” Polly gasped in horror as soon as he said it.

“I do hope he’s all right!” she cried out. “I have always seen him as a friend. You’ll tell me if something has happened, Mr. Morgan? Please don’t mince words.” York nodded.

“Of course not, Polly,” he said. She handed him the key, and he and Emily walked away, down the corridor. “She always seems to hear me fine when she wants to,” he muttered, when they were far enough away.

“I told you, she acts a lot deafer than she is,” Emily said. “She has to find her fun somewhere.” The two of them found their way to Forrest’s hotel room and opened it up. The curtains were drawn inside, but when the light was switched on, it seemed at first glance to be just like York’s room.

“Let’s see what we have,” York muttered. The two of them began to search, finding everything that someone might expect to see in a hotel room. There was a suitcase full of clothes, the keys to Forrest’s truck, bits and pieces for his dog, and a case full of seeds. Regular plant seeds. York made sure to check.

“I wonder where the dog is,” Emily thought aloud. “It wasn’t with him at the tower, was it?” York shook his head. “Maybe the Ingrams are babysitting it,” she said, shrugging slightly. York thought she might be right. He remembered how much Isaach and Isaiah seemed to love the dog. Their search continued, until York opened a cupboard under the bathroom sink and found an old, battered backpack. He pulled it out, ignoring the slight smell of mould, and brought it into the main room where they could dissect it in comfort.

York and Emily sat on the sofa, and he tipped the bag out onto the coffee table. A mixed menagerie of objects spilled onto the table in front of them, and York did not know where to start. It was hard to tell what it all meant. His eyes fell first on something he recognised, which he picked up in surprise.

“I recognise that,” Emily gasped. “That was on your desk.” York turned it over in his hands. The bird carving that he had found in the diner, which he had noticed was missing this morning. Forrest must have taken it when he had left the note.

“It seems he wanted a memento of our time together,” York muttered. Emily took it from him and looked over it carefully. She frowned as she flipped it over.

“York, did you see this?” she asked. He looked. In small letters, on the base of the carving, were the letters ‘H.W.’ carved into the wood.

“Harry Woodman,” York breathed. “So, Harry made this. Maybe Kaysen didn’t take it to remember me, after all.” Emily scowled unconsciously at the thing in her hands and put it back down on the table. York took it, tucking it into his jacket. He would make sure it got back home.

“What else is there…” Emily muttered, digging her hands into the pile. The two of them poured through it together. Most of the objects were inconsequential and unrecognisable, but now and then there was something familiar. Something that betrayed the pattern.

York found a lock of blonde hair, tied with a piece of string, which he did not want to think any further about. An ashtray, stamped with a logo that seemed familiar, until he remembered he had visited the bar in question in Boston, when he had first begun investigating the red seeds. A creased photo of a girl he recognised as a victim of one of the murderers he had brought in, who had babbled about being told to kill by a demon. Something which seemed more believable now. Then, the objects he discovered began to catch up with the times. There was a receipt from the A&G diner. A rip of fabric and a spare button from the hem of a waitress uniform that York knew would turn out to be Anna’s. A cracked teacup he felt was part of the Stewart household’s china. Then there was a scrap of red, waterproof fabric, old and faded, that could only have come from the original Raincoat Killer himself. York shuddered at all of it. He knew, and had seen, that some killers kept mementos of their work, but he had never before looked at a collection and known exactly where so much of it had come from. The last thing, the very last thing, so timely that it felt someone had planned it this way, was a small, nearly empty, perfume bottle. The sort that would fit neatly into a purse for the sake of travel. York removed the lid and pressed it to his face, letting the smell surround him. He knew it. The smell of days at home in the garden, of a secret second dessert that his father was not to hear about. Of damp cloths on his forehead when he was sick, and of television in the early afternoon as a hand stroked his hair. His mother’s perfume. This had been taken from her, before Forrest Kaysen had led his father down the path that ended with her death.

“Emily,” York said softly, his voice a separate presence, speaking independently of him. As if it wasn’t York speaking. “I remembered something today.”

“Yes?” Emily asked. She could tell at once that something was wrong. He felt her rest a hand on his arm. “What was it?”

“About Zach,” he said. “About me.”

“All right…” Emily murmured, waiting.

“Zach and I… we’re the same person,” he said. “I forgot. Over the years, I’ve doubted a lot of things, and a part of me wondered how he could seem so real. How we could have conversations like we did. Well, he is real. As real as I am. Zach is the person I used to be. I changed, when my parents died. I had to, to cope. But Zach has always been here with me, waiting. Waiting for this, I suppose. Waiting for it to be safe for him to come back.”

“I think I understand,” Emily said. “Not… not what it’s like, but I see how it works, I think. You’re like… best friends.” York smiled to himself. He did not think that anyone else could have understood. But she did.

“We are,” he said. “York and Zach. We’re there for each other when no-one else is. No-one was, I mean. Because now… there’s you.” He looked over at her, feeling the warmth of her skin and her breath. It felt good to have her so close. Safe.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Emily said, smiling. “You’ve got me. Both of you, if you want. York and Zach.” She laughed.

“I should tell you,” York said. “My real name, or my birth name I suppose, was Francis Zach Morgan. I had it changed legally not long after my parents died. My grandparents agreed because they thought there was a chance the story might haunt me if I kept it. That’s not why I did it, but I was thankful they agreed. I wanted to become someone else. I did such a good job, I actually forgot that that was what happened.” He smirked to himself. It seemed funny now.

“Sometimes it’s better to forget,” Emily agreed. “I don’t think you’re a different person. You seem the same to me. Maybe with some grey hairs after today,” she teased, running a hand through his hair and giggling. York grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I’m who I’ve always been,” he said. “I just finally remember where we started.” He let her hand drop and Emily smiled, widely, leaning over to kiss him before pulling back again.

“Well, whoever you are,” she said. “York. Zach. Francis, even… I love you.”

“I love you, too, Emily,” York murmured. “I always will. I promise you that.” He cut himself off with a grin. “And I also promise to take you out on a date, now that the case is finally closed.”

“Somewhere nicer than the diner, I expect,” she retorted, raising her eyebrows and laughing. York laughed with her.

“Sure thing, Emily,” he agreed. “Anywhere you like. I’ll take you to the moon, if that’s what you want.” She stuck her tongue out at him, and got up from the sofa.

“Now that I know you’re safe,” she said. “I think I have everything I want already.”


	68. Final Meeting

Chapter Sixty-Eight. [ Final Meeting ]

After going through Forrest’s collection and confiscating it, York had finally felt the weight of the past two days catch up to him. So much had happened, and he had still barely had a moment to recover. Emily had insisted that he go to bed. She even threatened to bring him something to eat if he didn’t. He had let her walk him to his room, where he collapsed fully clothed on the bed and almost immediately fell asleep. He slept dreamlessly, and did not wake until early the next morning. It was a clear day outside the window. Not a cloud in the sky.

York recalled that today was to be the day of the town meeting. He called Thomas to confirm the arrangements. Thomas was surprised to hear from him, and asked plenty of questions about what had happened. He had clearly been worried when Emily had asked him if he had seen York, and then never got a follow-up call. York tried to dismiss it. He said that he had spent the day looking for Forrest, which was a half-truth. Forrest, he said, repeating what he had told Polly, had gone missing. York had just been too distracted to check in with the department before he began the search. Thomas accepted the bluff, and asked again if the case was over. The desperation in his voice was palpable and York hated that he couldn’t give him an answer. He was informed that the meeting was arranged for midday, and said goodbye. When he hung up, he tapped his temple and sighed.

“I’m still not sure what to tell him, Zach,” York said aloud. “What do you think? You always know what I should do.” He waited, and eventually the answer came. Filling his head. Now that his relationship with Zach had been thrown into a new light, York thought it felt differently to how it had before. The words came from inside him, not from somewhere else. Though, that was where Zach had been all along. Inside him. They were in there together, united, like a pair of folded paper dolls. He smiled to himself.

“Sounds right, Zach,” he muttered. “It’s not the answer I would have chosen, but it is certainly… poetic. Let’s do it.” He went over to his suitcase to find a clean suit to change into. He had to look presentable today. He should shave as well. Then eat something, he was starving. Though it would have to be courtesy of Polly. He felt the A&G diner was off the list of possibilities.

♦ ♦ ♦

York arrived at the community centre an hour early so that he would not risk running into anyone outside. He went in and took up his chair on the stage. It felt odd to be there again after his last visit. He wondered if anyone would one day find the stain Forrest had left behind, and wonder what it was. He was by himself for about twenty minutes before Emily and Thomas appeared. As soon as York saw Thomas’ face, he realised Emily had let one small piece of news slip. Unsurprisingly, Thomas came straight over to him to ask.

“Is George dead?” he asked right away, planting his hands on the table in front of York. “Is he?” York glanced over at Emily who offered him a brief, defensive shrug.

“Yes, Thomas,” York said. “He is. I’ll… explain it all at the meeting. It’s complicated.”

“Good. Thank you.” Thomas straightened up and uncertainly adjusted his tie. He took a seat at the edge of the stage. Typically, York supposed, he would make notes on the meeting, but because George was gone, no-one had asked him to. It was probably just as well.

When the time came, and the room began to fill up, York looked across at the faces of all the people he had come to know in Greenvale. It seemed everyone was eager to hear what he had to say. The Ingram family was front and centre with, he noticed, Forrest’s dog in their midst. Willie was sharing a chair with one of the twins, very quiet and well-behaved for a dog out in public. A row behind them he saw Nick and Olivia, sitting beside one another, but physically apart. They did not touch at all. Diane was not far away, though she had chosen to sit with Becky, who stared up at the stage numbly, no doubt waiting for the bad news to drop. Polly had made the trip today, and she sat chatting quietly with Sigourney, who still clutched her pot and occasionally said something in a voice loud enough to float above the crowd. Ushah and Fiona also seemed to have arrived together, probably straight from work and ready to go back, but they talked happily amongst themselves and York was glad to see that their friendship looked stronger than ever. He hoped Ushah would tell Fiona some of the truth at some point. She was bound to be graceful about it, and happy for him. It was who she was. York also saw Wesley sitting towards the back of the room, eyes forward and calmly silent, though General Lysander occasionally leaned across from his seat and tried to share a joke. Wesley would try and act unaffected, but the ghost of a smile would cross his face. York suspected the two might be old friends. No doubt they swapped work horror stories from time to time. Guns and cars would both kill people, given the chance.

Finally, York let his eyes move to the very back row, where Richard and Sallie sat together, holding each other’s hands protectively, trading glances. Waiting to hear if Quint’s killer was about to be unmasked. Sallie had made more of an effort with her appearance than usual, trading in her house clothes for a neat blouse and skirt. No doubt she was trying to be strong for Richard, on what was bound to be a painful day. In the seat beside Richard was Anna. Her arms were crossed. Her long hair was unbrushed, cascading wildly over her shoulders. The jumper and skirt she was wearing had been picked up off the floor, not out of the wardrobe. York supposed there was no real reason for her to care how she looked today. All her posturing and phony smiles had done their job already. A door at the back of the room opened, and the audience turned to see who the late arrival might be. Anna most of all. York followed her eye line. Michael entered the room, alone, looking uncomfortably from face to face, eyes settling for a moment on Anna, and then down at the floor. He hurried over to take the first empty seat. Though he was dressed the same as always, neat and precise, there was something off about him. Maybe it was seeing him all alone. It was in such contrast to how he had appeared at the first town meeting. York was sure that everyone else in the room was thinking the same thing.

With everyone present, York looked at Emily in the seat beside him, and waited for her to open the meeting. He was relying on her skill with people to ease their audience into this.

“Welcome, everyone,” Emily said into the microphone. “Thank you for coming. I won’t waste your time. I’m going to start with the first major piece of news. Our sheriff, George Woodman, has died. This is bound to be upsetting, and I know you’ll all have questions, but I’m going to pass over to Agent York now, and hopefully he’ll be able to tell you everything you need to know.” As she nudged the microphone in his direction, York really hoped that she was right. He could hear the murmurs and see the expectant faces, and he hoped the story he was about to spin would satisfy them.

“Thank you, Deputy Wyatt,” he said. “And welcome everyone. This is going to be an emotional meeting for us all, I expect.” He fixed Anna with a look, an unexpressed glare, and saw her widen her eyes back at him. Maybe she was frightened he was going to go back on his promise, after all. Good. “I’ll start by saying that the case on the Greenvale murders, or the Raincoat Killer murders, is officially closed. You are all safe. There will be no more deaths.”

“Have you caught the killer?” Nick shouted from his seat. York looked back at him, and saw the glower on his face. Nick would probably have preferred it if Diane had stayed in prison for the killings. Unfortunately for him, she was free, and within her rights to be sitting near Olivia. Lilly looked over at Nick with a frown, then looked back at her sons, who were not paying the slightest bit of attention. They were taking turns feeding the dog scraps of food from their pockets.

“In a sense,” York said. “The killer has been identified. Unfortunately, they were killed during the confrontation. The Raincoat Killer…” he paused, making sure he was certain this was the right thing to do, before he went on. “Was George Woodman.” York heard a crash and turned to see that Thomas had knocked a light off the edge of the table. He ducked down to pick it up at once, and when York turned back to the audience, he saw many aghast expressions. Richard had covered his mouth with a hand and Sallie was whispering assurances in his ear. He was shaking his head, staring, but without looking at anything. In the seat beside him, Anna blinked in surprise, but a paper-thin smile crossed her face. York’s eyes fell on Becky, who looked stunned, and certainly confused. Diane had a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her defensively as she narrowed her eyes in what was definitely anger.

“York?” Emily murmured under her breath. He knew he should have told her about his plan before they went ahead, but he had barely decided on it before the meeting started. It was a last minute choice, one he was still not sure was going to work out.

“George Woodman, I discovered,” York went on. “Was having an affair with Carol MacLaine. One that was perhaps… ongoing.” There were gasps and vague sounds of discomfort from the crowd. Unsurprisingly. “Their relationship was what you might call unhealthy. Long before the events of the past few weeks, Carol was… his victim. I must sadly conclude that George killed her, and her ex-boyfriend, Quint Dunn, out of jealousy and anger. The events leading up to their deaths are sadly unknown to me, but this is my professional opinion of what happened. George was an unhappy and dangerous man who kept the entirety of his real life hidden from the world. None of you could have anticipated that this side of him existed.” York paused a moment to let the story sink in. “As for the death of Harry Stewart,” he continued. “This will also come as a shock. Shortly before his death, Harry revealed to me that he was, in fact, George Woodman’s father. I believe that George discovered this and, fresh from his first two murders and impassioned by the abandonment he had felt since a child, decided to kill Harry as well. A fitting end to the story, in his eyes.”

“Harry was the sheriff’s father? Are you serious?!” Fiona cried out, and York found her ability to focus entirely on the soap opera elements of what was truly a harrowing story amusing.

“Yes, I’m sure, Fiona,” he said, resisting the urge to smile at her. She twisted around in her seat to face the back of the room.

“Michael? Did you know that? Oh my god!” she called out. Michael shrunk unhappily down in his seat as everyone turned to stare at him inquisitively. He was only spared when York resumed his speech.

“As I was saying,” he said, clearing his throat. “I noticed that George had become unfocused and unusual after Carol’s death. I began to suspect that he might be involved. Then, the night before last, I went to confront him at home. While he confessed to his involvement in the murders, he was hostile and, sadly, refused to be taken alive. I was forced to shoot him in self-defence. Thus, while the murders are over and the case will be closed, there will be no arrest. I believe that George… worked alone. Thank you. I will take questions privately outside in a moment.” He nodded towards the audience and crossed his hands. Slowly, people began to drift towards the doors. There was a distinct sense of shock throughout the crowd. George, the sheriff, had not been people’s choice for the killer.

“I hope that was smart,” Emily whispered. She got up from her seat and went to go join the townsfolk in the lobby. York was glad that she had not been upset. They both knew that George was hardly an innocent victim in all this. If anyone had to take the blame, he was the right choice. York walked over to Thomas, who got to his feet.

“York,” he said uncertainly. “What you said about George… it’s not true, is it?”

“What do you mean, Thomas?” York asked.

“I mean, he didn’t kill Carol. He can’t have done. He was with you when she died.” Thomas looked at York with a frown. “Wasn’t he?”

“Actually…” York said. “Carol died the night before we found her body. It was meant to confuse us.”

“All right, but he was still with you when she was found. He can’t have done it alone,” Thomas pressed. York put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Thomas,” he said gently. “You and I both know that George is the reason Carol died. Don’t we?” Thomas hesitated, nodding uncertainly. “As far as I’m concerned, George killed her. Believe me. The truth… is complicated. It’s too complicated, and you would not thank me if I told you all the details. You should know, in your heart, that George is the reason Carol died. And now he’s dead, too. That’s as good an ending as you could have hoped for. Don’t make it more confusing than it needs to be. It won’t make you happy, trust me.” Thomas stood silently for a while, thinking it through.

“George… killed my sister,” he said at last, in a quiet voice. “I knew he did.”

“Exactly,” York agreed. “George killed your sister. And he paid for it.”

“I’ll trust you, York,” Thomas sighed. “Because you’ve been a good friend to me. You probably… know what’s best. You’re the only person I would accept this answer from, though, do you understand?”

“Of course I understand, Thomas,” York said. He was genuinely touched. “I see us as close friends. I only want what’s best for you.” Thomas smiled weakly. He glanced back at the room to see if anyone was still loitering.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. Then suddenly, he took hold of the lapels of York’s jacket and pulled him towards him, kissing him fiercely and then breaking away, fingers on his lips, giggling nervously.

“Thomas…?” York stammered in surprise.

“I’m sorry!” Thomas said quickly. “Just… as a thank you, for… for everything. And, well. I suppose I just wanted to do it. I don’t think Ushah would mind. I hope Emily doesn’t.” He twitched, straightening his back and edging towards the far end of the stage. “I… I should go,” he added. “But we’ll see each other before you think about leaving? I’ll be at home after this. Ushah and I planned to spend some time together. Please call me! Don’t leave without saying goodbye!” York waved as Thomas disappeared in a hurry.

“Well, Zach, that was a surprise,” he muttered. “Missed timing, I think. I won’t say I regret it, after meeting Emily, but maybe in another lifetime. What do you think? I certainly wouldn’t tire of his cooking.” He smiled to himself, and made his way off towards the doors back into the lobby, to field the questions Greenvale’s people were no doubt preparing for him.

♦ ♦ ♦

York’s first stop was Richard and Sallie. He noticed that Anna was no longer with them. When Richard saw him approach, he held out a hand, which York shook.

“Agent York,” he said stiffly. “Thank you. You kept your word. You found who killed my son. I won’t say I’m happy, that’s not the right word. But I’m glad it’s over.”

“Richard,” York said. “I’m only sorry it had to be like this. From what I understand, Quint was a good person. I’m sure he would have grown into a wonderful man.” Richard nodded, and turned his head away. He did not want to show how he was feeling in public. It was a difficult situation for the kind of man that he was.

“Sallie, I’m just… going to find the bathroom. I’ll be back soon,” Richard muttered, and walked off. To let himself fall apart in private, no doubt. York looked sadly after him. He hoped this answer would be enough to let him reach some peace.

“So you didn’t actually catch the killer, then?” Sallie scoffed, unimpressed. York frowned at her. Why she still felt the need to be so defensive, he did not know. Though he supposed she had grown up with George. They were about the same age. She had trusted the sheriff, and now she felt betrayed.

“Sadly not,” York agreed dryly. “But we can all rest easy knowing the murders have ended.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sallie said. “And you go off to disturb some other town. Make their lives hell for a while and, whoops, shoot _their_ sheriff. How do we even know he was the real killer?” York considered her for a moment. He had told himself that the story about George would satisfy everyone’s curiosity, and wrap things up as neatly as was still possible. And yet now he felt the urge to do something incredibly petty, and there was no angel on his shoulder telling him not to.

“If you’re concerned, Sallie,” he said politely. “Maybe you should ask your daughter. I’m sure she would be able to fill in the blanks. She had plenty to say about it the other night.” He smiled, and turned, walking off to the vague sound of Sallie stammering in shock. He was sure Anna would find a way to lie herself out of that little mess. He would just like to imagine Sallie tossing the question around in her head for a while first.

York strode over to the Ingram family, who were rowdy and apparently untouched by the troubling content of the town meeting. The children were playing with the dog, encouraging it to chase them back and forth across the floor. Lilly did her occasional best to shush them, but it was clearly not in her heart to ruin their fun. Keith stood beside her, idly tapping his foot to the music that was playing in his head, and Jim was behind the rest of the family, sitting down. He was the first to pay any attention to York.

“Hello there,” Jim said. Not quite friendly, but certainly polite. “I’m glad to hear that everything is over. Even if the end result is undesirable.”

“Yes, exactly,” York agreed. “It’s better to have a conclusion of some sort.” Jim nodded to himself.

“Will you be leaving town soon?” he asked.

“Yes, soon,” York said. “I have a few last things to do, but there’s no reason for me to stay now. My work here is done.”

“That it is,” Jim agreed. “Thank you for keeping my family safe.” York smiled. After what he had found out about Forrest, he had to admit that the family’s safety had not always been so certain.

“Did you say you’ll be leaving soon?” Lilly asked, smiling warmly at York.

“Yes, that’s right,” York said. “The case is over. There’s nothing left for me to do.”

“What a shame!” Lilly laughed. “I had hoped I might tempt you to stay on as a stock boy for us. I could really use someone as strong as you helping with the storage room.”

“Ah… yes,” York laughed awkwardly back, flushing. It seemed he was finally getting better at recognising flirting. Keith grinned back at him, snaking an arm around his wife’s waist.

“What’s that, FBI? Am I gonna have to get jealous?” he asked, jokingly. Before York could answer, he carried on. “What’s a guy gotta do to impress you, Lilly?” He grinned down at his wife. Lilly giggled into her fist.

“Just be you,” she said lovingly, and Keith flashed his teeth before dragging her in close for a kiss. York was once again impressed by their ability to completely ignore the outside world. He turned pointedly away from the two and their spontaneous embrace, and took a few steps towards Isaach and Isaiah instead.

“Hello boys,” he said. “Having fun?”

“Yeah!” one of them said happily. Isaach, he thought. Probably.

“Willie’s our dog now,” Isaiah added. “Forrest had to go away. He left him with us, so he’s ours!”

“Did he tell you he was going away?” York asked with some concern. The two boys shrugged, laughing amongst themselves.

“We heard it,” Isaach said. “He’s gone away for a long time!” York stepped away, shaking his head. There were some things he just did not want to know. He would take his own advice and trust that this was not worth asking about any further. He could at least let himself pretend that the twins had escaped from Forrest’s dark influence. York walked away and towards Wesley, who was standing by himself against the wall, and who York felt he owed a thank you to.

“Wesley,” he said. “I take it you were able to replace Emily’s gun at short notice.”

“I was,” Wesley admitted. “Was it important?”

“You have no idea,” York laughed. “Thank you. I trust the sheriff’s department will be ordering from you again in future.”

“I hope so, though with the sheriff dead, it’s hard to say,” Wesley said, shrugging his shoulders. “The important thing is that my work goes towards helping people. Not hurting them. I’m just glad these murders were committed the old fashioned way. I’d hate to see anything I made being used like that.”

“I understand,” York said, giving him a nod. He was hit by a sudden slap on the back and coughed loudly, before spinning around. Lysander was behind him, laughing to himself at what he surely considered to be a joke.

“Hello there, private!” Lysander sneered. York could tell by now the tone was meant to be friendly, even though it did a good job of hiding it. “So, you cracked your case! Congratulations. I’d consider giving you a discount on those car repairs, but honestly, that’s not who I am.”

“No, I wouldn’t have expected it,” York muttered. Lysander was sent into a fresh wave of laughter.

“What a mess!” he declared. “The sheriff turned out rotten, did he? I’m not surprised. Always something odd about him. I never liked him much.” York wondered if this was the truth. He supposed it didn’t matter, either way.

“There were signs,” he agreed dryly. Lysander nodded his head.

“There’s always signs,” he said smugly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have somewhere I’d much rather be.” York watched as the general strutted over towards Sigourney and Polly, stepping straight past Polly and starting up a conversation with the infamous pot lady. From the giggling, York thought it might be the first coherent conversation either of them had had in years. He would spare his mind from thinking about it any further. Instead, he went to say hello to Polly, now that she had been isolated from her group.

“Hello, Polly,” he said. “Do you have any questions about the meeting?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Morgan,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “It’s such a shame. I really can’t believe he would do something like that. People surprise you. Even now. And I thought I’d seen everything.”

“I’m sorry, Polly,” York said sympathetically. “I guess people will always manage to surprise us.”

“Yes… it is sad,” she agreed. “Have you heard any more from Mr. Kaysen?”

“I think he’s gone, Polly,” York said. “I mean… that I think he’s left town in a hurry. Something like… woman troubles.” Yes, he thought. Emily’s near-fatal shot would certainly qualify as ‘woman troubles’. He smirked to himself. Polly giggled weakly.

“Well,” she said. “That’s something that will never surprise me. He did have an eye for a pretty face. I suspected it would get him into trouble one day.”

“Yes, I think it did,” York agreed. “It was an ongoing problem. It really caught up to him in the end.”

“Will you be checking out soon?” Polly asked. “I am going to miss having you in the hotel. You’ve been such a lovely guest.”

“I’m afraid so,” York admitted. “I’ll miss your coffee.”

“Oh, Mr. Morgan!” Polly laughed. “That’s not something you can admit in public!” York smiled to himself. She was never going to change. He waved goodbye to her and carried on. The next person ran into him, sick of waiting.

“Agent York!” Fiona cried out, clapping her hands together. “I was totally taken aback in there!”

“I expect you were, Fiona. It’s quite shocking,” York agreed. She still had that cheerful demeanour he had been so pleasantly surprised by when they first met. It was nice to see someone in Greenvale weathering the storm no worse for wear.

“This is beyond anything I’ve ever read in a book!” she gasped. “I read a lot of crime fiction when I’m tired of studying. But this is so much bigger! The sheriff?! And he was Harry Stewart’s son! That’s amazing, I still can’t believe it. Who knew?”

“I… don’t think anyone knew. It was a secret,” York said.

“You’d think Michael would know, right? He was his assistant, after all,” Fiona said, curiously cocking her head.

“Yes. You would think that,” York said carefully. “Tell me, Fiona. How are things progressing in your life? Are your future plans still going ahead?”

“Sure are!” she grinned. “I’m going to apply to medical school for next year. I think I want to work in forensics. That would really be making a difference. Don’t you think?” York smiled to himself. It seemed he had been a positive influence on her.

“I think you’ll do great things,” he said. “Is Ushah happy for you?”

“Yeah…” Fiona said, turning slightly pink. “You know, I talked to him about it, and… um. I think I might have been a bit too hopeful. He kind of said something about, well… let’s just say I think he has someone back in L.A. still, and I don’t want to get in the way if he’s already happy.”

“Very mature, Fiona,” York said warmly. “You’ll make someone very happy one day yourself.” Now she turned completely red and York had to bite his tongue.

“Y-yeah!” she laughed. “Sure. After I finish school… we’ll see what happens.”

“Good luck,” York said. “And goodbye!” He spun around on his heel, walking off in the wrong direction. He did like Fiona. But he did not want to replace Ushah in her heart. Hopefully she would find a different law enforcement agency to offer her eventual expertise to. York caught sight of the Cormacks and decided to assuage his awkwardness with someone else’s. He walked over with a smile on his face to see that Nick, Olivia, and Diane were all standing together. Olivia was positioned unfortunately in the middle and neither of her paramours wanted to be more than a few steps away from her at any time. It was a silent battle, and he could not wait to hear more about it.

“Oh good, it’s you,” Nick said. “At least we’re not in my diner now, so I don’t feel like I have to be polite to you.”

“You were before? I should check I’ve got the definition right,” York said, smiling. Nick glared at him. He was not amused. “Olivia,” York went on. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she squeaked. “Um. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m sure you… guessed that.”

“I did actually,” York confessed. “It must be difficult, easing Diane back into society, after her time in the prison system.” Diane snorted, which he had to admit was unlike her.

“Very funny, Agent,” Diane said. “I can only be thankful that you finally punished the right person. Even if you did make a mess of things.”

“Does it bother you that you and George were… friends, Diane?” York asked. “Considering what he did?” She stared blankly at him.

“Nothing much bothers me,” she said. “Not even your game of arresting me. I still don’t know what you were trying to prove, but it worked out quite well for me, in the end.” She shamelessly reached out to take Olivia’s hand, and the other woman did not resist.

“In public?” Nick hissed. “We were going to talk about this.”

“Yes, I know,” Olivia said defensively. “But, well, it’s all… complicated. You know that.”

“So what exactly is happening here?” York asked. He was amused, he would admit. This was the softest problem he had encountered all week. In a sea of murders and demons and unpunished crimes, marital troubles were almost funny.

“It’s not really any of your business, is it?” Diane said coolly.

“I suppose it’s not,” York admitted light-heartedly. “I just need to know who to offer the congratulations and the condolences to. Surely you can help me out?”

“I’m not ready to give up on us, Olivia,” Nick muttered to his wife, ignoring York.

“And I have no intention of walking away, ‘Livia,” Diane murmured smoothly.

“Oh, my goodness,” Olivia mumbled, pinking in the cheeks. Nick took hold of her other hand and York was forced to bite down on his finger to restrain a giggle.

“It seems you don’t know yourselves yet,” he said, smiling. Nick shot him another glare.

“We’ll work it out,” he said crossly. “I trust Olivia. At least she’s not lying to me anymore, and… I suppose I can admit I might have helped cause this.”

“Might, Nick?” Diane said, amusedly. “Without you, Olivia and I would have never had a reason to talk. Don’t you think it’s interesting how our relationship could only have started thanks to her being married, instead of single?”

“Don’t push me!” Nick snapped. Olivia shook him off and placed the hand firmly on his chest.

“Nick,” she said. “Stop it. Be nicer to Diane. The two of you have always been friends! Can’t you… at least try to remember that?”

“Yes, Nick, let’s be friends again,” Diane said, leaning her head possessively on Olivia’s shoulder. “For Olivia’s sake.” Nick frowned, but he relented.

“We’re going to have another conversation when we get home,” he said. “I have to get back to the diner. Shouldn’t you be looking after your sister, Diane?”

“I’ll leave you all to it,” York said cheerfully. “Maybe I’ll come by for one last sandwich before I leave town.”

“Oh, I can’t wait for that!” Nick sighed, before heading off towards the exit. Diane smiled to herself, wrapping her arms around Olivia’s waist unapologetically, with complete disregard for the fact that they were in public. Olivia giggled to herself and York rolled his eyes, walking off. What a mess, he thought. He did not envy them, with that to unpick.

Becky was sitting by herself on a bench. She had been staring down at the floor, but looked up when he approached. York gave her a weak smile. She did not return it.

“I thought you said… you know what you said,” Becky muttered. “About Anna.”

“I wasn’t lying to you, Becky,” York said apologetically. “But there are reasons why people need to think this is what happened. And what about you? Did you think about what I told you?”

“I’m not gonna think about it,” she muttered under her breath. “It can’t be true. Anna isn’t who you think she is.”

“Maybe not,” York admitted. “But she’s not who you thought she was either. I don’t think anyone knows the real Anna, except for Anna.” Becky frowned, curling in on herself, protecting herself from the words as best she could.

“The sheriff did some really bad things,” Becky whispered. “I know you know all that now. That’s why you’re blaming it on him, yeah?”

“Yes,” York confessed quietly. “And if you want to, you can believe what I said in the meeting. You’re innocent in this, Becky. You can believe whatever version of the truth helps you get past this.”

“Oh, thanks,” she muttered sarcastically. “Listen. I’d like to be alone right now. No offence, but you’re not my favourite person to speak to anymore.”

“I understand, Becky. I wish you the best.” York turned away. “I didn’t want you to have to suffer any more than you had to,” he added. Without the full explanation, it was quite a weak parting statement, but he could not explain to Becky what Anna had intended to do to save herself. It would just be cruel.

“Then thanks,” Becky said in a muffled, whispered voice. “I was starting to feel like the whole world was out to get me.” York smiled sadly to himself. He walked away. There were only two more people he still felt the need to say goodbye to. And those conversations were going to be a little different.

York found Michael hiding out in the corridor by himself. He was smoking a cigarette, but as soon as he noticed York, he frantically stubbed it out and tossed it onto the floor, straightening up.

“Force of habit?” York suggested. “Don’t worry, Michael. I don’t think there’s much chance of Harry catching you smoking anymore.”

“Hmm,” Michael offered in response. He was as unresponsive as ever. York had an idea to get him talking. He reached into his jacket and produced the bird carving. Michael baulked at the sight of it.

“ _You_ had this?!” he shouted. “I thought it was lost!”

“I admit, I shouldn’t have taken it,” York said. “I didn’t realise it was important.” Michael forgot decorum for a moment and snatched it from York’s hand, cradling the small wooden bird against his chest. “Harry made it. Didn’t he?” York asked.

“Yes,” Michael admitted uncertainly. “It was meant to be a show of affection, but in the end I associate it more with rejection.”

“Too little, too late, I suppose,” York mused. “Homemade gifts are usually a sign of love. It’s a shame this one disappeared when it did. It might have reminded you of what you were giving up.” Michael glared coldly up at him, clutching the carving tightly.

“I gave nothing up,” he said. “I have decided to make peace with the loss that has taken place. That does not mean I chose what it was I had to face.”

“No, of course not, Michael,” York said stiffly. He did not want him to think he agreed. “It’s your bed now, though. You made it. You’ll have to live in it.”

“Mr. Francis York Morgan,” Michael said, smiling coldly. “Don’t think you can get under my skin. Just because you think you see what’s within.”

“I’m sorry?” York asked, lifting his eyebrows in interest.

“You don’t know me,” Michael hissed. “No-one knows me, actually. How I deal with what has happened is my own business, and I intend to find a way to move on. Happily.” He hesitated for a moment, and offered his last thought with a muted whine. “After the life I’ve lived, I think I deserve to be happy. Finally.”

“We all think that,” York said. “Good luck, anyway. Even though you don’t deserve it.” He considered for a moment, then grinned to himself and leant over to ruffle Michael’s hair. Immediately, Michael slapped his hand away and tried to repair the damage, hissing and fussing, like a cat. York laughed quietly under his breath and walked away. He doubted Harry had ever been that affectionate with him.

After a search, York found the last person he was looking for. She was back in the theatre itself, standing beside the stage. She must have come back in once everyone left, to get away. York walked over to her and she stood still, watching him approach.

“Hello, Anna,” York said.

“Hi,” she replied. “Nice speech. Everyone really bought it.”

“As far as everyone is concerned, that was the absolute truth,” York warned her. He knew he didn’t need to. Anna would not be confessing any time soon. She frowned at him. She looked older now, he thought. The experience had aged her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t think anyone’s gonna complain. He wasn’t a good person. He doesn’t deserve any better than this.”

“He might have done once,” York said, thinking about the person George had been, long ago. The child who had thought that apologising might work on his mother, if he kept trying. That naïveté that had been slowly used to turn him into a monster. “People might say the same thing about you, Anna,” he pointed out.

“They might,” she said flatly. “But I don’t care what anyone else thinks about me anymore. I’m done.” York believed her.

“Another thing,” he said. “Forrest Kaysen.” He saw Anna twitch. “Yes, we both know who he really was. But he won’t be hurting anyone else again. He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Anna asked nervously. “Wait, like… dead?”

“Like dead, indeed,” York agreed.

“Shit…” she whispered. “But… if he’s gone, then…”

“Are you worried that your deal might not be binding now?” York asked playfully. Anna refused to answer. “It’s an interesting question,” he admitted. “But as you’ve made perfectly clear, you already have what you want. I spoke to Becky, and Michael. They both seem mixed up at the moment.”

“Leave them alone,” Anna said, frowning. “They’re fine. Don’t harass Becky, okay?”

“I won’t,” York agreed. “I think she deserves a break as much as you do.” Anna smiled to herself at that, even if she did not want him to see it. Suddenly they were interrupted by the sound of barking, and Anna cringed. Willie came rushing over, and jumped up at her. Anna tried to shove the dog off, but she had her back against the stage, and there was nowhere to go.

“God!” she cried. “He keeps doing this! I thought he’d leave me alone in here. I don’t even like dogs. Why aren’t Lilly’s kids watching him?” York reached out to ease the dog away from her, and it turned its head back to stare at him. He felt the same eeriness he had a few times from Forrest, and dropped his hand. Willie hopped back down onto the floor, and strode off. Anna watched it go with her nose crinkled up.

“You’ve got worse demons to worry about than an old Dalmatian,” York said. “How have you been coping, since George’s death?”

“Fine,” Anna said guardedly. Then she sighed. “Actually…” she admitted. “I’ve been having these kind of weird dreams. Funny. I shouldn’t tell you that, but there’s no-one else I can say it to who wouldn’t ask questions.”

“Not Michael?” York asked. Anna made a face at him.

“What, and worry him?” she scoffed. “He thinks everything’s over. For his sake, it _is_ over, okay? As soon as you leave town, we’re never gonna think about it again. We’ll just be normal people again.”

“No, Anna,” York said, shaking his head. “You’ll never be a normal person again.” She was silent for a moment, before looking down at her feet.

“I know that,” she said in a small voice. “I knew that from the beginning. I don’t want him to know that. Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes,” York said. “I think it is. Trust me, Anna. I have a lot of experience in not being a normal person. I think people tend to pick up on it.”

“You know a lot,” she said stiffly. “Shame we can’t be friends, huh? Sounds like we could really help each other out.”

“I’m done helping you, Anna,” York said. “I think anyone would agree that I’ve already helped you far too much. I’m still not convinced you would send Becky to prison in your place. I could still decide to make you face justice.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Anna muttered. She did not sound like she expected an answer, but York was going to give her one anyway.

“I think you’re going to face something worse,” he told her. “The kind of something that doesn’t need to be dispensed by a court, but which happens over time, when you try to fit back in with people and realise you never can. Justice is not the right word, because it’s a force that doesn’t discriminate. It takes everyone who experiences some kind of tragedy, from either side, and separates them from the world forever. It makes you different. It took me. I was punished for getting too close to something I didn’t have any way to control. I think it took you before you decided to do what you did, Anna. I think it’s why Forrest Kaysen chose you to begin with. You were already marked. So was George. So was Carol. We’re all alike. We’ve all been touched by things we shouldn’t have had to be. We made different choices about what to do with it. I decided to help people. You decided you just wanted to help yourself.”

“Great,” Anna muttered.

“There’s actually another reason, Anna,” York said. “That I chose to say what I did at the town meeting today. I have spent most of my life looking for an answer to a question that I thought I would never find. I don’t wish that emptiness on other people, so I knew I couldn’t leave town without giving people some kind of answer. More than that, though, I learnt something yesterday. Someone very close to me did something unforgivable. He was tricked into it the same way you were. And, despite myself, I want to be able to forgive him for that. I don’t see how I can forgive my father for what he did, and then turn around and blame you for doing the same thing.”

“Huh,” Anna said after a moment of stunned silence. “Then… thanks I guess.”

“Just tell me you’re sorry,” York added. “I want to know that you are.” Anna looked up at him. She considered it. It was certainly a lot to ask. For if she admitted that she was sorry for what she had done, it would open the floodgates, and she would risk the guilt crushing her like a wave of water.

“I’m sorry I had to do it,” Anna said at last. “But I know that I had to do it.”

“I wonder what would have happened if you didn’t?” York asked. It was the end of their conversation. He went to leave, first the room, then the community centre itself. This time, he was leaving before everyone else, but he did not care. He had to leave them all behind soon anyway. It might as well be now. He walked slowly towards the police cruiser. He had a few things in mind for the rest of the day. He looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes. The sun was bright and hopeful. It looked like the rain was gone for good.


	69. York and Zach

Chapter Sixty-Nine. [ York and Zach ]

York went from the town meeting over to Thomas’ apartment. He had noticed that Ushah had not hung around. He and Thomas were probably planning on spending their lunch time together. They would have planned to in advance, in case the revelation of Carol’s killer had overwhelmed Thomas. York did not intend on leaving without saying a proper goodbye to them both. He walked up the steps and knocked on the door. Ushah answered the door with a smile.

“York,” he said, letting him come inside. “It’s good to see you. I hoped you might stop by.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” York agreed. “How is my favourite physician?”

“A little surprised by your speech, I’ll admit,” Ushah said. “I noticed a few holes in your theory. But when I mentioned it to Thomas, he suggested it was better to ignore them, and I do try to listen to him.” York smiled to himself.

“Where is Thomas?” he asked.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Thomas called, and York walked around to see him. Thomas stood stirring a pot of food that was bubbling on the stove, He had changed out of his uniform, and was wearing a tight red vest, stuffed at the top, and a simple black skirt that went past his knees. York dipped his finger into the food without asking and licked it.

“As good as ever,” he applauded. Thomas smiled and flushed in the cheeks. He was always flattered when someone complimented his cooking.

“Thank you, York!” he said.

“And I think red is your colour,” York added. Thomas said nothing, stirring the stew more fiercely and laughing weakly to himself. York went to sit down on the sofa beside Ushah.

“You still owe me a chess game,” Ushah said coolly, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’re going to leave town without coming through?”

“I may have to, Ushah,” York apologised cheerfully. “At least for now. I need to get out of Greenvale. A lot has changed for me while I’ve been here. I’m seeing myself in a new light. I need some time to process that, away from here. Don’t worry, though. I don’t intend to leave without telling you where to write.”

“Good,” Ushah said, genuinely. “I was hoping we could stay in touch. I know Thomas would appreciate it, too.”

“Oh, yes!” Thomas agreed. “It’s been so long since I’ve had any real friends. George really monopolised my time, and, well, that was on purpose. Outside of Carol, you’re the only two I’ve really felt comfortable opening up to since, well, since I was eighteen or so.”

“That’s a shame, Thomas,” York said. “But at least you have us now. I’ll keep in touch. Phone calls, letters, whatever you like. You can come over and visit me at home some time, if you want to.” Thomas laughed to himself.

“Maybe,” he said. “It would be nice to go somewhere where no-one knows me for a while.” York nodded appreciatively.

“Speaking of knowing you…” he began. “How exactly is the journey of identity going? I see it’s going somewhere, at least.” Thomas defensively raised his arms to cover his chest and looked over at the wall, nibbling his lip.

“Well…” he said. “It’s complicated, I suppose. It’s going to take me some time to work out what I want. To be. So much of it is still wrapped up in what happened with George and Carol, that I… I just need some time to figure it out. It’s been hard.”

“You’ll get there, Thomas,” Ushah said gently. Thomas smiled and walked over, kissing him on the cheek. Ushah gave him a dramatic gasp in response, and cradled the cheek in his hand. York was happy watching the two of them. Unlike most of the people he knew in Greenvale, these two seemed to have actually worked things out.

“I’m going to try things out and see what feels right,” Thomas added. “I’ll be sure to let you know when I have the answer.”

“Thank you. I wish you the best of luck with it,” York said. “You have a lot of other questions to answer, as well. Are you going to keep working at the sheriff’s department?”

“Without a sheriff?” Thomas asked. “I don’t know. Do you think Emily is going to take that over? I think I could work for her, but I don’t know… if she’d want me to.” He clutched his arm and looked dejectedly down at the floor. York was tempted to reach out and hug him, but he thought better of it.

“Emily does not blame you for anything that George did, Thomas,” he said. “Not at all. No-one does. You had no power to stop him, or change him, or fix any of this. What’s done is done. You’re not responsible.” Thomas nodded a little and made himself smile.

“All right,” he said. “Then maybe. Maybe. There are a lot of bad memories for me at work. I might have to find something else to do.”

“Yes, you’re out of two jobs,” York recalled. “With the Galaxy of Terror closed as well. It’s a shame about that, but I don’t know that it could be the same anymore. Not without Carol there.”

“Yes, I know,” Thomas agreed sadly. “It seems a shame to just… leave it. Our mother left the building to us when she moved away from Greenvale. Not that there was really anything there before Carol turned it into her bar. I guess… it feels like a waste to do nothing with it. But it can’t be like it was when she was alive. Maybe I’ll make it into a café. I like to cook. It might be a nice thing for me to do, don’t you think?”

“I think it sounds perfect, Thomas,” York said, grinning. “I’ll make sure to eat there anytime I’m back in Greenvale.”

“Good, I’m so glad,” Thomas sighed happily. “I need a project to take my mind off everything. And I don’t think anything would make me feel better than making some… adjustments to that place.” York thought of the basement under the Galaxy of Terror. He hoped Thomas filled the whole thing in with concrete and never looked back.

“Do you want to stay and eat lunch with us, York?” Ushah asked. York got up from the sofa at the reminder of the time.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “I have some things to do today. I shouldn’t waste any more time.” Ushah stood up and shook York by the hand, reconsidering halfway through and grabbing him for a quick hug.

“Take care,” he said, patting York on the back. “I hope you’re serious about keeping in touch. I won’t be happy if you change your mind.” Ushah pulled his folded coat from the back of the sofa, and removed a piece of paper and a pen from the pocket. He scribbled down a phone number and handed it to York, who tucked it into his jacket.

“I promise,” York said. “I’ll call you soon. I don’t make friends often, and I have every intention of holding onto the ones I find.” Ushah smiled at that.

“Thank you again,” Thomas said, coming over and wrapping his arms around York. He refused to let go for a few long minutes, squeezing tightly. When he eventually pulled back, he was teary-eyed. “You’ve done so much for me, York. If Carol was here I know she’d thank you, too. You saved me. I’ll never forget that.”

“That’s all that matters,” York agreed softly. “That’s why I keep working. I want to make sure that the good people stay safe. There seem to be so few of them, sometimes.”

“You’re one of them, don’t forget,” Thomas said, smudging at his eyes. “I don’t think I can say thank you enough.”

“Your friendship is the only thanks I need, Thomas,” York said, squeezing his friend’s hand. “And the knowledge that you get to move on after all this. That’s all I need.” Thomas hugged him again, shaking with a sudden burst of unrepressed sobs. York held him tightly, and only let go when Thomas was ready. They said a final goodbye, and York walked towards the door. He stepped outside and began down the steps. Thomas was free and safe. That was the best ending he could ask for. Well, almost.

After leaving the apartment, York drove over to the junkyard to speak to Lysander. After a long, tedious conversation about how important it was to take good care of your equipment, one that was wrapped around an anecdote from the war, York was finally rewarded with the keys to his own car. Lysander had parked it outside the lot for him, and when he saw it, fresh and new, dents levelled out and not a trace of mud, he felt a rush of happiness sweep over him.

“Finally, Zach,” he muttered. “Our pride and joy. We’re reunited at last.”

After taking a moment to appreciate the feel of being back in his beloved car, he drove off to find a payphone. He had to call Emily. 

♦ ♦ ♦

“This isn’t exactly where I pictured us going on a first date,” Emily said, as York parked the car. He smirked to himself. Neither had he, but then, it was not exactly the date he had promised. That would have to wait. He got out of the car, and walked around to the back.

“There’s something we need to do here,” York told her, as he opened the trunk. “To put an end to all this.” Emily shrugged her shoulders. She had come to accept a little weirdness when it came to York. He dragged out the thing he had brought with them, and the two of them walked slowly up the hill towards the cemetery. He led them through the graveyard and in the direction of the fence. Emily hung back while York went on ahead, raising the chainsaw in his hands. He did not want to know why Keith had just had it lying around in the back room of the Milk Barn for him to borrow.

“You’re really going to take them all down?” Emily shouted over to him.

“I have to, Emily,” York called back. “These trees are the reason tragedies keep happening in Greenvale. With them gone, I’ll know people are safe.” Without further ado, he started the chainsaw, and any further comments were discouraged by the roar of machinery. Emily sat down on the grass and watched as York began to tear into the red trees. It was fortunate they had such slender trunks. She did not think much of his approach to safety, but within the hour, all the trees were lying flat and lifeless on the ground. And with no-one to replant them this time.

York left the chainsaw at the edge of the fence and came to join Emily, sitting down beside her and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

“No more seeds,” Emily said.

“No more seeds,” York agreed. “Greenvale is safe. For now, at least. Who knows what’ll happen next.” He looked at Emily for a moment. “You know, someone will need to take over for George. How do you feel about taking on the sheriff’s badge?”

“Poorly,” Emily moaned. “There’s no way. I can’t just go and sit at George’s desk after everything that happened! And how can I expect people to trust me when I know there’s a murderer walking around that I’m just letting go free?” She buried her face in her hands for a moment and let out a rough, frustrated sigh. “Honestly, York… I’m not sure if I can stay in Greenvale after this.”

“Really, Emily?” York asked. He was surprised. He had thought that Emily felt more at home in Greenvale than anywhere. It took him a second to realise that that was the problem. She was too close to what had happened to just accept it and move on.

“I’ll see it everywhere I go,” Emily sighed. “If I go into work and see something of George’s. If I go to the diner to eat, and Anna serves me. When I go to Richard’s bar and Quint’s not there. Driving past the Galaxy of Terror and knowing Carol’s not inside. Running into anyone, anyone at all, after all the things we’ve found out. How can I just… keep acting like it’s all normal? The Greenvale I loved is gone. I don’t think it was even real. It was just my imagination.”

“There’s nothing wrong with imagination,” York said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “That’s what makes us who we are. We all see the world differently. I like your version of it. I’m sorry you can’t see it anymore.” Emily entwined her fingers in the hand on her shoulder.

“So am I,” she said. “But that’s how life works. Eventually, reality catches up to you, and you just have to adjust.” York nodded to himself. He knew she was right.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said dreamily, both to Emily and himself. “Would I be the way I am if Kaysen hadn’t touched my life when he did? What I mean is, if my father had decided to kill my mother on his own, would I still be the same?”

“What do you mean?” Emily asked. On the drive over, York had finally given Emily the summary of events that had taken place at the top of the clock tower. There had been plenty of questions, but he had done his best to answer them all. He had left out a few of the finer details.

“He told me I was soiled,” York murmured. “That Kaysen had planted something in me that changed me for good. I did change, that much is true. But was it because of him?”

“You mean, was it the trauma itself, or something supernatural?” Emily asked. “I don’t think you can know for sure. Does it make a difference?”

“I suppose not, I’m just curious,” York said. “I have to be, because the thing that’s been growing in me since then is Zach, and I want to be able to understand who he is.”

“Well, that part’s simple,” Emily said, smiling softly. “Zach is you. You are Zach. The two of you, you’re part of each other. One and the same. You found each other when you needed each other, and that’s not a bad thing. Zach isn’t the seed of something terrible from your past. He’s representative of every part of you that’s good. He’s the part of you that has always been driven to protect others, your whole life. If that’s what Forrest planted inside you, then he was a fool, because there’s no better force in the world. It doesn’t matter where he came from. Zach’s a spirit of goodness. The two of you… there’s nothing evil inside you, York.”

“Thank goodness I have you to make sense of it,” York murmured. “I’d hate to imagine doing it all alone.” He got up from the grass, brushing off his knees, and Emily did the same. “You know, I thought Brian might be here,” he muttered to himself. “I suppose with Kaysen gone, he’s no longer around. Maybe he’s finally at peace.” He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of gum, sticking a piece in his mouth and chewing.

“What, no cigarettes?” Emily teased.

“I think I might give up,” York said. “Zach’s always wanted me to. I’m just about ready to listen.”

“Wow,” Emily laughed. “Remind me to thank him!” They turned around, and began the walk back through the graveyard, when Emily grabbed hold of his arm and stopped him. “York…” she whispered. “Look!” He followed her gaze. By the edge of the forest, there was a figure, watching them. A man, in a white suit, with grey hair. York began to walk towards him without a word.

He recognised the face. He had only seen it once, in the mansion that night, when the mask had been peeled back. He was looking at Harry Stewart. He stopped a few feet away from him. Harry stood silently, flickering and inconsistent like one of the shadows. York felt that if he got too close, he might break the illusion.

“Harry,” he called out. “Harry, it’s all over. I finished it. I found him, the man who planted those trees. He’s gone now. It will never happen again.” As he watched, Harry smiled knowingly back at him. York thought he shook his head, but it was so difficult to decide when his image could barely stop tremoring. There was a moment where they stayed still and considered one another, then Harry turned around and moved back towards the treeline. York watched, and his mouth opened in surprise as he saw, standing in the shade of the forest, the figure of George faintly visible amongst the trees. Harry walked over to his son, and the two of them continued deeper into the forest, vanishing soundlessly, like smoke. York remained fixed to the spot. A moment later he saw a rippling flash of red pass behind some tree trunks, followed by the appearance of a shape that could only be Carol. As she came into view, she looked over at him. York felt that he had to say something. He had so many apologies for Carol saved up inside himself.

“Carol!” he called out. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you in time. I’m so sorry I wasn’t… able to save you.” She looked back at him, her hazel eyes glimmering in the shadow of the leaves. She said nothing. York went on. “The only thing I can tell you is that Thomas is safe,” he said. “He’s happy. He’s going to be all right. I thought you would want to know that.” As he watched, Carol’s expression slowly changed from a blank frown to a smile, widening, until she looked back at him with so much warmth and relief it was impossible to believe, in the moment, that she wasn’t alive. York found himself smiling back. It was the only thing he could still offer her. He hoped she was able to enjoy being free, now. Even if she had paid the highest price to get there. Carol began to walk back into the forest, following a different path to the others, going her own way. A moment later, a final figure burst out of the trees behind her, and rushed down the path she had started on. York had never met him, but he recognised the mop of blonde hair under the cowboy hat that he kept pinned to his head with an idle hand. It was Quint. Carol noticed him, and turned, shaking her head and grabbing his free hand. She pulled him after her, and the last thing York was left with was the sound of their laughter, wafting up the hill towards him, light and pure like children’s.

A few minutes later, Emily came to stand beside him, taking his hand in hers.

“Did you see them too?” York asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Sort of.” York smiled to himself. It was the first time he had heard someone confirm one of his sightings. He could get used to having someone to share his perspective.

“Well,” he said. “This is the end. Everything’s tied off, boxed up. It’s all over.”

“All of it?” Emily asked, smirking. “And what about us?” York turned to look at her. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her, feeling the warmth of her lips on his, and the weight of her body against him. She was not so eager to let him go. Her arms were around his waist, hands knotted behind his back, before he could fight it. There was no getting away now, and he had never been happier to think it.

“We’ll be together,” York told her. “That’s the only thing I care about now. Everything else is done. We’ll keep going forever. Just you, and me.”

“The three of us,” she laughed in agreement, her blue eyes shining like the clear sky above them. “Emily, York, and Zach.”

_**The End.** _


	70. Epilogue / Director’s Commentary

Epilogue. [ Director’s Commentary ]

Please don’t read this until or unless you’ve finished the whole story, as I’m going to talk quite a lot about my thoughts on certain parts, certain themes, and generally the things I wanted to convey in my writing. You don’t need to read this at all, in fact. Think of it as bonus content. Anyway, without any more delay, here is my commentary and analysis of Scenario B, from an author’s perspective.

First, let me say how much I enjoyed working on this adaption of Deadly Premonition. At its heart, Scenario B is a novelisation of the game, with enough changes to be an original and interesting story in its own right. I tried to spread my attention around the characters, mention almost all the side quests, and generally get the full feel of the game across, with my own spin. I am sure by now that it was clear I wanted to ground the world of Deadly Premonition more in reality, without losing the surreal elements entirely. I did not want to turn this into a ‘demons don’t exist’ alternative universe. Partly, I think, because that is one of the charms of the game. It crosses the boundary between real and unreal. I wanted to preserve the way that Deadly Premonition plays with the fantastic and, hopefully, expand on it. What is and is not real, and how the unreal affects the real, is a question that I wanted to be central to Scenario B. And I have personal reasons for doing so.

As a writer, my work has always been strongly influenced by my experience with psychosis. Some of the elements in Scenario B are drawn directly from it. The way that the characters in York’s dreams of the red room speak is designed to resemble word salad: a symptom of various psychotic conditions that corrupts speech. Some of the hallucinations and dreams also come from personal experience. I remember one particularly vivid taste-based hallucination where I was overwhelmed by a cloying, oppressive, false taste of marmalade that completely overwrote my other senses while I tried to shake it off. I may have a few negative associations with jam for that reason, and I think York’s second dream reflects a similar kind of feeling. Nothing like experiencing a taste you cannot get rid of no matter what.

One thing that attracted me to Deadly Premonition is the way in which York, as a mentally ill character, is allowed to be the hero. Even when sympathetic mentally ill characters appear in media, they are very rarely the protagonists, or heroic. They tend to be relegated to the role of anti-hero, at best. While there are mentally ill anti-heroes I love and relate to, I think it is an oversight that we are never allowed to be the moral centre of a story. York is a true exception. He deals with various extreme symptoms and a history of trauma, and is still uncompromisingly good until the end. While I do not think he plays things entirely by the rules (who could, when demons start popping up everywhere?) he does not lose sight of what matters to him. He is eager that justice be done. I wanted to stretch that idea in Scenario B, and really dissect the traditional horror media dichotomy between hero and villain. Towards the end of the story, Forrest tries to corner York with the idea that because he is ‘delusional’, he is inherently villainous, and needs to sacrifice himself for the greater good. Forrest’s argument is that, as a psychotic person, York should not be able to be the hero, and if he is not the hero, then he has to be a villain. As York says in Deadly Premonition, there are only three types of people: “criminals (villains), victims, and investigators (heroes)”. You are good, you are bad, or you are used by people who are bad. Unfortunately for Forrest, this argument does not work. York understands his role in the story and, despite a momentary shake, is able to follow through on it. He defeats the villain, with a little help, and turns the expectation that horror movies have repeatedly enforced – that the psychotic, disordered, split-personality sufferer is always the bad guy – on its head. Because in this horror movie, the opposite is true.

In taking a more grounded approach to the source material, I also wanted to play with the character of Forrest Kaysen. In Deadly Premonition, he is a demon who enjoys messing with people simply because that is what demons do. In Scenario B, while that is still true, I wanted to explore some other ideas as well. For one, the ‘power’ that Forrest offers people in this story is more realistic. It is more like a wish than a magic potion. Whereas in Deadly Premonition, The Raincoat Killer is granted actual superhuman powers, in Scenario B the killer walks away with the promise that they will be safe, and nothing else. Something that seems to be true, as they manage to evade capture by the end. Be careful what you wish for applies in both cases. If George Woodman had not desired to be superhumanly strong in Deadly Premonition, then he would not have ended up in the fight that killed him. Nor would he be so arrogant to think he had no weaknesses. Likewise, you can wish for no-one to be able to hurt you, and find yourself in a position where you can never be close to another human being ever again. Locked away alone, forever. What is safer than that? So while Forrest is still distinctly a demon, he plays by human rules, and manipulates people instead of overpowering them. In Scenario B, he lets them do the dirty work themselves. He is a villain who uses people against one another, and is, in many ways, the exact opposite of York (or Zach, if you prefer).

In Scenario B, where the focus is very much on a mentally ill hero triumphing over horror media stereotypes, Forrest as the villain becomes a kind of parody of mental illness itself. One that only affects sane characters. He affects people by getting inside their heads, playing on their vulnerabilities, and driving them to actions they would not have considered without his influence. I think that is how a lot of people view psychosis. An evil force that takes control of your actions, that forces you to do dark things. It is an incorrect assumption, which is why, as I say, Forrest’s goading only affects the sane in Scenario B. First (historically), there is Xander Morgan. Xander is struggling through a rough patch in his marriage when Forrest seeks him out. Forrest seizes on Xander’s weakness and turns it against him. He pressures him into killing Valentine, and then leaves, his job done, for Xander to pick up the pieces. Xander cannot. He refuses to live with what he has done. We never truly see Xander’s perspective, as York is only able to meet him briefly as a vision controlled by Forrest, and it is uncertain how much of what that Xander says is what the real Xander felt, but it is clear that he is overwhelmed by his actions, and chooses to offer up his life in response. Later, of course, Forrest finds Anna Graham. The way I wrote their first meeting is designed to leave the possibility open that Forrest was originally looking for George, like in Deadly Premonition itself. Instead, Anna catches his attention by chance. She is angry and vengeful, and a perfect target for manipulation. Forrest plants the idea in her head that her vulnerability could become strength, and she snatches the opportunity. Anna is completely sane, and remains so, but allows herself to be corrupted by the force that Forrest represents. It turns out by the end that she is stronger-willed than Forrest expected, and she is able to hold herself together, mostly, long enough to complete the ritual. She is not entirely overcome, like Xander was, and indeed at the end of the story she is purged of any remaining hold Forrest has over her when he dies. She survives her experience with the darkness.

If Forrest’s character in Scenario B is like a sane man’s mental illness, then it is appropriate that the only person who can stand up against him is York. As York points out, he manages to resist the shadow versions of his parents, and the torture scenes that Forrest puts on for him, specifically because he is experienced in the unreal. Most people are used to trusting what they see in front of their eyes, and York is not. He is much better able to withstand the torment, because he is used to separating things like it from reality. As he points out, he has Zach, who is representative of the trauma that caused him to develop his illness. Zach is a real person, but whether he is another real person housed within York’s brain, or a spirit that came to him when he needed it, is ambiguous. York does not know the answer at the end of the story, because I do not think it matters. Reality is an esoteric concept, and for some people, there is no meaningful difference between those two ideas. All that matters is that York, and Zach, having taken control of their mental state, are the only ones able to truly purge Forrest from Greenvale. The humanoid mental breakdown that Forrest represents can only be mastered by someone who is past the point of immunity to it. York is, literally, the only person who is mentally strong enough to put an end to Forrest, specifically because of his mental illness. He defeats the villain, becomes the hero, and the tired association between psychosis and villainy is put to bed. It is like one of York’s favourite old horror movies, with the roles inverted.

There are plenty of places in Scenario B where I wanted to play with inversion of the source material. While I love Deadly Premonition dearly, and this is not really meant as a criticism, there is a lot of violence directed at women which can come off a little seedy (excuse me). I’ll come back to the greatest example, which is in flipping the Raincoat Killer themselves, and look at some smaller examples I played with first. I wanted to do away with the sexual assault element of the red seeds in this, because frankly I did not want to write a novel culminating in rape. As such, when Forrest plants seeds in Scenario B, they are more metaphorical. He plants the seeds of doubts in people’s minds, and lets them overcome his targets. This is exemplified by Xander Morgan. Xander is planted with the seed of doubt, and becomes, in his own words, ‘soiled’ by it. He is driven to kill Valentine because of the way this seed grows inside him, and then kills himself, in a reversal of the way that the two of them die in Deadly Premonition. In the game of course, Valentine is planted with a literal seed which grows in her stomach and kills her, and Xander kills himself in a mixture of grief and shame for being unable to stop it. Deadly Premonition later replicates this sad event with Emily, who is also planted with a seed that is going to kill her and, in her own words, will mean she is ‘soiled’ too. York, and eventually Zach, watch and are unable to do anything. In Scenario B, it is York who believes he is ‘soiled’ by Forrest’s influence over his past. Less directly, Forrest has planted the seed of York’s trauma inside him, and York briefly considers suicide over the possibility that it will lead him to hurt the people he cares about, like his father did. York is able to fight the urge, promising to be better, rejecting the proposition that he is ‘soiled’ in a mimicry of the way that Emily, in Deadly Premonition, fights it by taking her own life. Scenario B flips the roles of Valentine and Xander, which in turn flips the roles of Emily and York. The male characters have to deal with the possibility that they have been infected and corrupted by an outside influence. It is their autonomy that is compromised by Forrest. Emily’s autonomy is upheld best with her coming to rescue York from the theatre / clock tower, in the same way he has to save her in Deadly Premonition. This moment originally looks as if it will be played straight, with the note Forrest leaves in York’s hotel room, but it is ultimately an inversion of Deadly Premonition’s ending. Emily does not kill Forrest, as that would detract from my earlier points about York becoming the hero, but she does buy him enough time to survive. She saves his life. I believe that Emily’s choice to end her life before she can be destroyed at the end of Deadly Premonition is a brave one, but it is a sad ending for her character. Emily is allowed to decide her own destiny in her final moments, and she makes the decision not to be used any more, but by that point in the game she has been the secret inspiration for George’s spiral of violence, held over Thomas’ head to cause his breakdown, and captured by Forrest to hurt York. Such a strong person deserves a little better than that. By letting Emily save York’s life, and by letting her survive, I hope to give her back that autonomy that she had always deserved to keep.

A few other more minor examples of inverting the events of Deadly Premonition occur in the aftermath of the first two murders. First, we have Becky and Quint’s places being swapped. In Deadly Premonition, Becky is the second victim of the Raincoat Killer, and in Scenario B, Quint is the first victim. This shifts the dynamic around for them, and also for their families. Instead of seeing Quint grieving for Becky, and wondering if he could have done more to save her, we have Becky grieving and lamenting her lack of faith in her boyfriend. Instead of Richard comforting Sallie, it is Sallie who comforts Richard. Although, even in Scenario B, Richard is the more competent of the two of them. I should confess that I did not feel too terrible in choosing to kill off Quint at the start of the story. He is not the most popular character in the fandom, from what I can tell, as he does not develop much beyond ‘Becky’s sad boyfriend’ at any point. I think, in some ways, he is more sympathetic in death. I at least felt quite sad for him when it came time to write his actual death scene during the killer’s point of view chapters. I think there was a lot of room for development with Becky’s character, who has more connections and more history than Quint. Becky, it turns out in both Deadly Premonition and Scenario B, is involved in the secret club at the Galaxy of Terror. She is also Diane’s sister, and Anna’s best friend. There is plenty of room for exploration there, and hopefully I used it well.

Becky is not the only person York meets who is grieving. Anna, at least before the reveal, seems to be grieving over Carol’s death. The height of her grief comes when York delivers a photograph of her and Carol, taken in the basement under the Galaxy of Terror. This, you may well notice, is a version of one of the side quests in Deadly Premonition, where York must find Carol and give her back a photo taken of her and Anna. Carol displays one of her rare moments of vulnerability at the sight of the photo. In Deadly Premonition, Carol makes it quite obvious that she is grieving for Anna, even if she does try to hide the fact from York. It seems likely that Carol and Anna were close friends at one time. In Scenario B, I expanded on this potential from the other side of things. Anna is clearly shaken by Carol’s death, even if York believes there is something deeper about it that she is hiding. He assumes that it stops at Anna’s misery over the lost potential she saw for a relationship with Carol, which, naturally, it does not. This in itself is an inversion of Deadly Premonition. In the game, Carol is not only sad that Anna has been killed, she is also feeling guilty that she was involved in her death. In Scenario B, it is the same situation (which is a clue, if you have picked up on the pattern by that point in the story). Anna is not just grieving the loss of her friend, but struggling with the guilt of having chosen to kill her. In a lot of ways, she and Carol have traded places in the narrative.

The murders themselves are also reflections of the ones in Deadly Premonition. The first murder in Scenario B, where Quint is stabbed in the lumber mill, is the most obvious, as it is very similar to the way in which Anna was killed, happening in the same place. The main difference is just that Anna’s body was moved after her death. The second murder in Scenario B sees Carol strangled to death outside Becky’s house, which matches the way in which Becky is killed by strangulation in her bathroom in Deadly Premonition. Becky is even briefly teased as being the second victim, because the crime took place so close to her home. The third murder in Scenario B has Harry skewered in his darkened mansion. The setting itself is similar to the art gallery, where Diane becomes the third victim in Deadly Premonition, also at night. Both are ominous, empty mansions on the outskirts of Greenvale. The ways in which Harry and Diane die are also similar, in the sense that both end up impaled by some prized possession from their own home. Perhaps Diane should have rethought the anchoring on that statue before it was too late. The final, fourth victim in Scenario B is George. York finds him in his own basement, and he is still alive, able to impart a few dying comments about his killer before he goes. This is similar to the way in which Carol is found in Deadly Premonition. She is still alive, just about, also in a basement, and also offers some passing comments on her killer’s motives. In both cases, while York finds the fourth victim alive, it is far too late to save them.

Additionally, the victims in each case have something in common. As victims, Quint and Anna are both fairly innocuous teenagers, able to draw the attention of outside forces without seeming to be the type of people to inspire anyone to murder. Carol and Becky are both connected to the first victim as another member of their social group, and are also involved romantically with their killer on the side of their main relationship. Harry and Diane both attract York’s attention due to their refusal to provide straight answers to questions, and the suspicious way that they seem to have become involved in the case, despite their isolated existences. Both may well be considered suspects, until they are killed. George and Carol, of course, share the fact that they are not purely innocent victims. Both were involved, to some degree, in the secret club that becomes a driving force behind the murders in both storylines. Additionally, George’s murder, in Scenario B, is reminiscent of the way that he, in Deadly Premonition, kills Anna. Both are killed with a gash to the chest that no doubt comes as a surprise, because of who delivered it.

And now to return to the greatest example of inversion presented in Scenario B, which is the swapping of George and Anna’s roles. In both Scenario B and Deadly Premonition, the secret club under the Galaxy of Terror generates a spark which leads to the deaths of multiple people. One of the people involved becomes a killer. George chooses to kill women as proof of his own strength, as a way of growing stronger still, and, in some sad part of his mind, as revenge against his abusive mother. Anna decides to kill because she too, in her own way, wants to be stronger. She is tired of being weak, of being used by people. She may not seek the same kind of physical strength that George does, but her murders are motivated deeply by the desire to gain the strength that will protect her from any future abuse. In that way, the two of them have something in common. I chose Anna for the role of the Raincoat Killer in part because she was the first victim in Deadly Premonition. We are never able to meet her alive, as her death sparks the story and brings York to Greenvale. Indeed, Anna brings York to Greenvale in Scenario B as well, but her role is the opposite of what it once was. On a meta level, casting Anna as the killer in Scenario B allows her to reclaim what was done to her in Deadly Premonition. From victim to killer, Anna is the centre of both the original game and of this story. It all starts with her.

Anna does not get a great deal of characterisation in Deadly Premonition due to her unfortunate handicap of being dead for all of it. Some bits and pieces I was able to pick up, were that Anna is widely regarded by many to be a dumb blonde, that she enjoys taking photographs, is close to her best friend, keeps a diary regularly, smokes in secret, and is drawn into the club by Carol (and possibly George and Thomas). Anna is clearly managing to live a double life. Her mother knows that she is lying to her, but assumes it is just a secret about Anna having a boyfriend. Olivia tells York that Anna acts oddly the day after it rains, but has never thought about the reason until after Anna’s death. I chose to fill in some of the missing pieces by drawing from Deadly Premonition’s own source of inspiration. I looked at Laura Palmer in Twin Peaks, and how she is viewed by many before her death as a well-behaved, sweet, and ultimately harmless girl. As it turns out, Laura is living a secret life of her own, and she is far from harmless. One thread that Twin Peaks brings up, is the idea that Laura Palmer chose to face death, because she knew that the other option was becoming possessed and corrupted by demonic forces. She felt it was better to die than become the thing that had tried so hard to destroy her. In which case, consider my version of Anna Graham a Laura Palmer who answered differently. Instead of death, she chooses to allow the demon in, picking survival at any cost.

Something I tried to bring up many times throughout Scenario B is the sliding scale between victim and victimiser. I believe it is the central conflict, and depending on where you place people on the scale, decides how you view the conclusion to the case. Many of the characters in Deadly Premonition are victims, on one level or another. Anna, Becky, Diane, and Carol are all victims of the Raincoat Killer, and three of them were victims of George’s personality before that. Thomas is also a victim of George’s actions, and seemingly has been for a long time. George himself was a victim, as a child, of grotesque abuse. There are certainly more. Not all of these people are simply victims, however. There is no better example than George, who was surely a tragic and fully sympathetic figure once, but who has chosen to act out his abuse and torture on others rather than try and be better than his mother. Which is why the relationship between victim and victimiser is so interesting. So many people are both. The scale starts in Scenario B with Forrest, who is in no way sympathetic. He is a trickster figure trying to cause as much pain as possible, with no human life of his own. He is nothing but a victimiser. I would suggest the scale ends with Becky, who ends up losing almost everyone who matters to her, in one way or another, and who narrowly escapes being framed for the murders. It will be a long time before Becky trusts anyone again after the close of the story, and she does not do anything particularly wrong at any point. There are plenty of people in between. Forrest gets Harry’s parents killed, setting him on a bad path for life. Harry in turn manages to damage the lives of his sons, most fantastically when he abandons George to his mother’s violence. George turns his anger on plenty of people, including Carol, who looks for any areas where she can build up some power of her own. She settles on trying to drag Anna down with her, and in her first action along her own dark path, Anna grabs at Becky and pulls her along after her. It’s a neat trail, and the characters get less sympathetic as they go, allowing fruiting bodies to spread out from their own suffering and corrupt others. It is up to interpretation where you draw the line between bad and good, where you decide someone has crossed the invisible line and lost the right to sympathy. Morality is grey in Scenario B.

If the scale has Forrest at one end and Becky at the other, then I would say Carol is a good middle point, and that goes for both Deadly Premonition and Scenario B. In Deadly Premonition, Carol is both victim and victimiser. She helps to plan the Raincoat killings, but she becomes one of the sacrifices. Her world is skewed by the abusive relationship George has trapped her in, but she no doubt still helps lure two younger women to their deaths. She does bad, but with little choice. She is selfish, but abused. In Scenario B, it is fairly clear that Carol is willing to follow things towards the same events that happened in Deadly Premonition, but is cut off when Anna is the one chosen by Forrest. In this, she is more innocent than her original self, though she is still carrying around a muddied conscience of some severity. Interestingly, the characters themselves are quite divided on Carol’s guilt. Anna, who was personally betrayed by Carol, sees her as unforgivable. There is no good left, as far as Anna can tell, and Carol is completely sullied. York, whose job with the FBI it is to recognise guilt, sees Carol completely differently. He never blames her for anything, seeing her role in what happened merely as the natural result of George’s influence over her. To him, she is just a victim. Personally, I lean more towards York’s view, but I doubt I would see things that way if I had been in Anna’s shoes. Again, there is no one answer to this question. Carol is both. She is different things from different perspectives, and if nothing else, she is redeemed by death.

Anna is the character whose place on the scale between victim and victimiser is most interesting. I think the consideration must be made on both a textual and meta level. If it were possible for Anna to know her original fate in Deadly Premonition, would that make her actions in Scenario B more acceptable? Perhaps. As it happens, she seems to suspect that George’s plans for her did not extend to the one occasion. She may be smart enough to work out that Forrest’s offer could have gone to someone other than her. In reading the story, I feel there is an extra level added by knowing that Anna was originally a victim of the Raincoat Killer in Deadly Premonition. It makes her role in Scenario B an act of revenge, on more than just the level presented within the text. Anna is reclaiming her life from the three people who took it from her in Deadly Premonition. George, obviously, who killed her. Carol who assisted. And Harry, who allowed George to become a killer and who, it certainly seems, could have stopped the murders from taking place with the information he withheld from York. That is, however, just on the meta level. Anna’s in-universe actions are removed from such facts.

To me, the most clearly villainous action of Anna’s in Scenario B is her decision to murder Quint. Quint quite simply did nothing wrong. He was rude to her on occasion, but that is really the extent of it. It is painfully clear that Anna’s actions in killing him are motivated not be revenge, as her other murders are, but by jealousy. She is jealous of his relationship with Becky, to her mind because it is putting her friendship at risk, although Quint suggests that Anna may have unresolved feelings for Becky as well. Anna tries to spin Quint’s death in various ways, ultimately settling on the fact that she had to choose four victims, and her personal grudge list was one short. The problem here is that, if Anna was truly only looking to kill people who had hurt her, then there were better choices. Sallie, for example, has hurt or smothered Anna throughout the years. While Anna may not, and does not, want to kill her own mother (a courtesy she does not intend to extend to everyone’s parents, apparently), there is still Thomas. Thomas, less directly than Carol, helped to enact George’s plan to hurt Anna and Becky. Anna barely even considers killing Thomas. He would be the better fit for her revenge narrative by far, but Anna, though she would not admit it, is happy for the excuse to get rid of Quint. Even if the method by which he is excised from her life is not something she would have considered before meeting Forrest. Quint’s murder is a smudge on Anna’s otherwise somewhat sympathetic killing spree. It is hard to blame her for George’s death, and even York struggles to do so. Harry and Carol have personally hurt her, and others, and the amount of sympathy you feel for them probably varies depending on who is speaking in the narrative. Anna can never hope to be morally clean, though, not after picking Quint as her first victim. He may even be more innocent than Becky, the true final point of the scale of victimhood in Scenario B, pulled in accidentally by Becky’s love for him. After killing him, Anna ascends to victimiser status, and stays there, on some level, forever. That said, Anna cannot meet the same end as George does in Deadly Premonition, because she is a different kind of killer. She is morally grey, but far less so than George, who has willingly forfeited the right to sympathy when he chose to stop being a victim at the cost of innocent lives. On a meta level, if Anna were to be punished here in the same way as George was in Deadly Premonition, it would suggest that their actions are comparable. If York viewed Scenario B’s Anna in the same way he views Deadly Premonition’s George, then Anna and George’s crimes would seem to be equal points on a scale of violence. As far as is possible, Anna and George, as killers and as abuse victims, are opposites.

Despite George’s reduction in Scenario B from killer to hapless sheriff and eventual murder victim, the Raincoat killings are still firmly entwined with the fortunes of the Woodman family. This is only fair, as the Woodmans are Greenvale’s first family. If you believe George in Deadly Premonition, Harry’s father founded the town (although that does not quite fit the timeline. It makes more sense for him to have brought the economic boost that Greenvale needed to grow into what it became, by starting the lumber trade, than building it brick by brick by himself). Then, Harry’s father became the first Raincoat Killer. In both Deadly Premonition and Scenario B, his actions were originally to try and prevent harm coming to the people of Greenvale, before being overcome by the poison of the red seeds. By the present, Harry Stewart, formerly Woodman, owns most of the property in Greenvale. He and George are the largest authority figures Greenvale has to offer. Harry always seems to know more than he lets on, and in Deadly Premonition, has clear knowledge about the killer and future victims before the fact. As a family, they have made a lot of mistakes. It would be wrong to remove the story from their hands entirely. In Scenario B, the various members of the Woodman clan are still a driving force behind the plot, and, on one level, the Raincoat Killer remains a family affair.

The way I’ve written them in Scenario B, George and Michael are foils for one another. I think this was essentially the idea in Deadly Premonition as well. Each one of them guards and tends to one of the Woodman parents, though one of these is a healthier relationship than the other. In each case, it highlights their dedication to and, unfortunately, fatal dependence on, their parent of choice. George is a loner, he has largely given up on earning the approval of his sole parent and spends his time punishing any versions of her he can gain access to. He is brutal and selfish. He puts up a front to seem human, when he is a monster underneath. Michael, on the other hand, is desperate for approval. It is the central motivation of his character. He seeks to gain his father’s approval and, if you are so inclined, you can make sure Zach helps him do it. Unlike George, Michael is a loner not by choice, but by necessity. Harry keeps him close, and away from the rest of the townspeople, from some mix of reliance and paranoia. Michael’s life since age fifteen has been dedicated to Harry. He puts up a front, like George, but it is not to hide a monster. He acts inhuman, (York says “you’d almost think he was a robot”), but is vulnerable underneath, as his personal quest shows. As can be expected of someone whose father has a literal totem of approval to hold over their son’s head. In Scenario B, George and Michael start off in the same positions as in Deadly Premonition, but end up going in different directions. The two pseudo-brothers of the Woodman family have their destinies disrupted by Anna’s decision to become the next Raincoat Killer. Their relationships with her, much the same as everything else about them, are opposites of one another.

I included a few new relationships in Scenario B, all for various reasons. Diane and Olivia seemed like an amusing twist on the suspected relationship between Diane and Nick in Deadly Premonition, and was a good excuse to build up Diane as a suspect (and Olivia too, if you took it that way. She was certainly rather suspicious in the first half of the story). Thomas’s relationship with Ushah felt like the necessary step to pull him away from his breakdown. Thomas cracks in Deadly Premonition, partly because of guilt, and because he truly has nothing left and no-one to go to for help. If he was going to end up safe and sound, he needed someone to lean on. I feel that Ushah’s reaction to Fiona’s feelings for him, and his statement that he has never had a girlfriend, could be interpreted as him being gay. It is by no means definitive, but it is certainly possible. I would argue the way he and York lightly flirt in Deadly Premonition adds fire to that. Thomas and Ushah are both quite retiring and inoffensive people, looking for a simple life after living through, shall we say, a flashier youth. They were a natural fit. Carol and Anna I feel could be intuited from Carol’s behaviour in Deadly Premonition, and feels like an appropriate, bitter undercurrent to their friendship. In Scenario B, Carol ends up playing the George role with Anna, trying to reclaim her relinquished power from him in the same way he tried to take control back from his mother by starting to abuse women in the first place. For people who are familiar with Twin Peaks, it again makes sense, as Laura Palmer had similar relationships with various women. Then, while it is never in particular focus in the story, Carol’s former relationship with Quint made sense to me, and eased the way to write in a lot of Becky’s behaviour surrounding her dead boyfriend. I wanted every new relationship to be of purpose to the narrative, which just leaves the largest change left unsaid.

First and foremost, to write a truly good ‘impossible murder’, there has to be a trick. The trick to Carol’s murder (which it is ‘impossible’ for Anna to commit, as she was in the sheriff’s department with York at the time, thus giving her an ironclad alibi), was a simple switch in timing. Still, for the body to appear when it does, the killer needs an accomplice. Becky would be a good choice for Anna’s accomplice, in theory, until you remember that Quint is slated to die, and that rules out any chance of her co-operating. Carol is also out, unless Anna was to rethink her and George’s deaths. There is no-one else especially close to the real Anna left to help. She needs someone new. As such, I opted to tie together the loose threads of the Woodman family’s guilt in the Raincoat Killer legacy, and Anna’s missing accomplice, in one person. Michael.

As far as relationships go, theirs has a decent basis. They are surprisingly similar people under the surface. If you poke through their bedrooms in Deadly Premonition, it becomes easy to picture the both of them hunched over their respective diaries, and stubbing out a secret cigarette before their parent catches them at it. Considering they both spend plenty of time at the diner as well, they would have plenty of chances to meet. (It is implied, I believe, that they are on friendly terms in Deadly Premonition, as Anna is one of if not the only person Michael refers to by just their first name). Perhaps in less life-or-death circumstances, they could have done each other some genuine good. The only real obstacle to their talking is Harry, as he is always with Michael, except for after nine in the evening (as Deadly Premonition helpfully tells us). Once the opportunity arises and they get talking properly, everything else falls neatly into motion. Anna gains that little extra strength and support she needs to resist George and Carol’s plans, Forrest takes an interest in her, and she is already on the path to becoming a killer. Which means Michael is unknowingly on the path to helping a killer, too.

I always enjoy playing with metaphors, and the sinner’s sandwich became a rather unsubtle one in Scenario B. It’s original sin, Eve’s apple, the link that first allowed Anna and Michael to meet and set everything else in motion. It comes up a few times. The living tree York sees in the art gallery whose branches offer him the sandwich where, in Deadly Premonition, they offered apples. The sandwich in York’s second dream, offered by a fantastical waitress (a dream version of Anna), that is torn from Quint’s body. The final clue that allows York to put the pieces together, and makes him realise that Anna and Michael have a relationship. The sinner’s sandwich really lives up to its name here. The bird carving that Michael constantly finds himself losing takes on a deeper meaning, too. It becomes a much more explicit symbol in the relationship between him and Harry. It was given to him with the proviso that it could only be finished when he earns Harry’s seal of approval as a worthy son, and in Scenario B, it is a physical representation of Harry’s approval. Michael loses it after Carol’s death, and after his role in moving the body, because he is frazzled. In a greater sense, he loses it then because he is afraid he has lost the right or the ability to earn Harry’s approval. York finds it shortly after and takes it, not realising what it is. In doing so, he removes the chance to fulfil the mission that, in Deadly Premonition, allows Michael and Harry to reunite and become a real family. After all, if you do not finish Michael’s side quest before leaving Greenvale in the game, then the two of them never reach an accord. It is a crucial step in their potential for a good future, and when York takes the carving in Scenario B, it is a possibility he is stubbing out. Really, the removal of the carving is a hint that Michael and Harry will not be reuniting in this universe, although the fact that it is due to Harry’s untimely death was not as thoroughly foreshadowed.

As far as foreshadowing goes, there are lots of hints about Michael and Anna’s relationship to uncover. The extra bowl of cereal at Anna’s table that York notices when he interrupts their morning. The gaps in Michael’s responses the night of Harry’s murder that might suggest he is talking to someone else behind his bedroom door, and the fact that the killer knew exactly when he would be out of the house, and where to find his sword. Anna’s nervousness when York comes to talk to her in the diner immediately after Harry and Michael leave, and her relief when he is only asking about their order. Even York’s summary of Eraserhead for Michael’s sake, focusing on the salient details of a man and woman and their evil creation. Not to mention the fact that the only person we know of who is invested enough in Harry to have any potential motive for his murder is Michael, and he cannot have carried it out, so there is a missing link between the third murder and the first two. There are plenty of buried hints. My personal favourite, however, comes from the unlikely source of Keith Ingram. Keith tells York a story about two unfortunate ghosts haunting the art gallery. One of them remains locked up inside their cavernous home thanks to an overbearing father, and is only offered a moment of relief when a would-be lover appears. Sadly for them both, the girl accidentally slips to her death and, in a fit of anger, her lover kills the girl’s father because of his role in her death. It rather neatly mirrors elements of Michael and Anna’s lives and relationship, and the bloody connection between them of Harry’s death. The two ghost lovers also resemble Anna and Michael, with the dead girl’s waterfall hair and the way the boy is dressed. They suggest, in the garbled language of the other world, that things will be different for them next time, and the male ghost speaks in the same poetic, musical way that York describes as being Michael’s speech. Who else could they be?

York’s fourth and final dream wraps up a lot of Anna and Michael’s story that York was not privy to. First we see the figment Anna praying on her knees, in reference to both the ghostly lover and the real Anna Graham’s desperate plea for something to change. The real Anna’s metaphorical prayer is answered by Forrest, who pushes her into the guise of the Raincoat Killer. In the dream, the figment Anna then finds herself drenched in blood and spreads the corruption to the figment Michael. Very quickly, they are overcome with the colour red, and there is too much blood on their hands to turn back. A moment later, they are revealed to be puppets of a greater evil, merely a part of the puzzle rather than the solution itself. York is able to realise what a part of him has known for some time. Forrest is the true demon behind the murders, the real villain. The fourth dream is a way for York to understand what was revealed during Anna’s point of view chapters. It is quite possible that Forrest sets it up for him on purpose, as a vision to guide him towards their final confrontation.

One of the greater themes running through Scenario B is the troubles with families and parenthood. Deadly Premonition offers plenty of bad families and ruined parent and child relationships to build on. The Woodman family, as I already mentioned, is one large web of lies and trouble. In Scenario B, each rung on the family ladder has its own problems. Harry ends up a failure as a son, a husband, and a father. In turn, he accidentally lures his parents out to the scene of the Greenvale massacre, then fails to handle the resulting trauma, letting it destroy his relationship with his wife. Finally, he abandons one son and then holds the second accountable for his own mistakes, placing the burden of upholding a successful family on his adopted son’s shoulders. While Michael never wants to blame Harry for his lofty expectations, Anna certainly does. She blames Harry not just for what he has done to Michael, but also for creating the monstrous version of George who tried to attack her and Becky. If Harry had not abandoned George, letting him grow into the person that he does, then there would be no murder spree in Greenvale. This is true in both Deadly Premonition and Scenario B, but it is only in Scenario B that he really faces any punishment for his actions. Harry’s bad relationships with his sons get him killed, along with three others. The corruption of parental responsibilities is largely to blame for the events of Scenario B.

The Woodmans are not the only malfunctioning family in Greenvale. Anna herself has a dead father and a badly-behaved mother. Sallie could perhaps have prevented some of the events that led up to the end of the story if she had taken a more active interest in her daughter’s life. By the end of Scenario B, the Graham family is only more complicated by the probable inclusion of Richard, whose son Anna has secretly killed. They are somewhere past dysfunctional by that point. Thomas and Carol are another family struggling to function. Before the start of Scenario B, they have fallen into an unhealthy and abusive relationship with George, which they share, and from which neither can escape. Breaking away from George would mean abandoning the other to take the full brunt of his abuse. Carol and Thomas are both trapped, not just by their love for George, but also by their love for each other. Emily and York both deal with unresolved issues surrounding their parents, and are able to bond over the fact. By the end, they have both managed to resolve matters. Emily is going to speak to her father again and try and repair their relationship, something she has plans to do in Deadly Premonition if you fulfil certain conditions (though she does not live long enough to see it through). York finally gets answers from a version of his parents, and understands how he lost them both. He also gets to have a conversation, of sorts, with his father. York can put the mystery of their deaths behind him while also refusing to be the kind of man his father was. He chooses to be better, and the future looks promising for him. Finally, there is the odd pseudo-parenthood of Diane and Becky. The Ames parents were unhappy, their relationship was violent, and they died in an untimely accident. At first, it seems to York that Diane has failed to take on the parental role with her much younger sister. The two barely seem to have any relationship, and Diane refuses to talk about Becky. By the end of Scenario B, however, it seems there may be another level after all. It is implied that Diane suspected the Raincoat Killer was Becky from the beginning, and part of why she has been so obtuse under questioning is that she wants to protect her sister from being caught. She suspected that Becky may have killed her boyfriend and her bully, perhaps chalking up the later murders to some unknown factor, outside her perception. Diane cares more for her sister than is initially obvious, and the story concludes with Diane being the only person Becky has left to rely on. Theirs is not a perfect relationship, but they are one of the few families that is able to end things on a happy note. Diane is a rare exception in Greenvale. She is a protective ‘parent’.

Happy endings were a tenuous enough thread in Deadly Premonition, and they are certainly still complicated in Scenario B. Not for everyone. Emily and York are given a real happy ending. They can be together, and feel safe. There is a cloud hanging over them, certainly, from the secrets that have been dug up over the course of the story. Emily, especially, has doubts over whether Greenvale is still the place she wants to be. It is not clear how their relationship will play out, or where the two of them will end up. All that is clear is that they will have a chance to have one. Thomas is also arguably given a happy resolution to his problems, certainly much more so than how he ended up in Deadly Premonition. It is not perfect for him, after losing his sister, but he has a chance to move forward and try to be happy at least. The endings given to the other characters touched by the killings are less definitive. Firstly, there is the sighting in the final chapter of the ghosts, or spirits, or memories (however you choose to see them) of the murder victims. This is a play on the end of Deadly Premonition, where the goddesses of the forest are able to find some peace in death. Here, York sees Harry and George, then Carol and Quint, hovering at the edge of the forest. In a way, Harry and George are able to resolve their relationship in a way they never could in life. The secret is out. Father and son are able to look at one another as such for the first time. Harry no longer has any reason to hide the fact that he is George’s father, and George no longer has any power to clutch on to. In death, they are on a much more even footing, and have the potential to resolve the issues that separated them in life. It is a happy ending for the Woodmans, of a sort. Carol is also offered a complicated happy ending of her own. She is free for the first time and able to escape the vicious cycle that George started. As a goddess of the forest, her real fate is unknown. She may fade away now that Forrest is dead, and she may not. Either way, she is given a moment of peace she was unable to secure in life. It may not be a good ending, but it is at least liberating.

The most complicated ending is undoubtedly the one shared by Michael and Anna. Anna’s point of view section concludes with the two of them feeling that they will be happy in the end, and that their actions, brutal as they may have been, were worth it. Unfortunately for the two of them, once York is back in control of the narrative, things quickly change. York has some choice comments for them both when he confronts them at the mansion. He reminds them that they are not actually at an ending, but rather a beginning. They are stuck with one another for many decades to come, because if either one tries to walk away, then they risk being handed over to the police by the other. They are doomed to spend the rest of their lives rehashing their actions and wondering if they made the right choices after all. They cannot move past the murders, because they both have each other to act as a constant reminder of what happened. Soon, the phrase “we have each other” goes from a comforting reassurance to a prison sentence. They may have escaped formal sentencing, but they are by no means off the hook. If York is right, then they are going to punish each other simply by existing. Anna and Michael present the final corrupt family in Scenario B. As York reminds them, they have only succeeded in securing their future by sacrificing other people’s lives. The brief happy ending they share at the end of Chapter 59 is just that. It is brief. It cannot last, because their lives are going to carry on past the end of the story, and they have done too much to not be effected by it. When York confronts the two of them in the Stewart mansion, Anna is wearing a dress she says she found in one of the closets there. The implication is that it belonged to George’s mother, something that Harry held onto after he left his family. In Deadly Premonition, it is possible to find a closet in the Stewart mansion full of clothes which appear to belong to his dead wife. He is one for keepsakes. In the case of Scenario B, the choice of clothing implies that Anna and Michael may end up repeating the same mistakes as Harry and his wife. York eagerly points it out as well, although Michael insists he will never carry on the tradition of his father’s mistakes. It is too early to say if he is right. Whether history will repeat itself, or not, is up to interpretation. The story closes at the end of the investigation, and what happens next is anyone’s guess. Whether the two of them get, or deserve, any lasting happiness cannot be said.

Anna’s attempt to frame Becky for the murders may land her firmly in unsympathetic territory. It is a last ditch effort to keep everything she has worked for in place, and York begrudgingly accepts that he would rather leave Anna where she is than risk destroying Becky’s life as well. He does not know whether or not Anna would actually go through with it, if pushed. I wanted it to be ambiguous. Has Anna fallen so far that she will even betray her best friend if it means staying out of prison? Personally, I do not think so. I would imagine that Anna’s ploy to frame Becky is just a ploy, and that if York had arrested her, she would take responsibility. That is by no means certain, though. Perhaps Anna herself does not know, and would not know until the moment she was forced to decide. More than anything, the plan to frame Becky is just Forrest’s last gift to Anna. It is the reward for completing the four ritual sacrifices. It is her ‘get out of jail free’ card. Anna is given several moments of dark courage, charisma, and clarity after beginning the ritual, and this plan is the last. Some of the details of Carol’s murder would suggest she has had the idea in mind for a while now, just in case. No matter when the idea of framing Becky comes into Anna’s head, it is the final thing that allows her to escape from conventional justice, and from York. She asked to be safe on completion of her demon’s contract, and she was. York does not just decide to let her go because he is being merciful. Anna is under the protection of Forrest and the red tree by the time York is able to confront her. He has little choice. Unlike George in Deadly Premonition, Anna does not get greedy. She does not push her luck at the end. As such, she is able to stay safe, just like she wanted. Even if that safety turns out to be a prison in itself.

Regardless of Anna’s intentions, within the story itself, Becky is being framed as the most likely suspect. In writing any good murder mystery, it is important to choose and set up red herrings, and Becky is the largest of them all. She is rude and evasive with the police. She knows the first two victims well, and has motives to kill them both. She, like Anna, has been a victim of George’s club, something which anyone who has played Deadly Premonition knows from the beginning of the story. Her own sister believes she is guilty and tries to protect her, and her best friend is uncomfortable discussing details about her life. The person who could best vouch for Becky, Quint, is already dead. If you picked up on the running theme of parenthood and families, and how they damage people, then you may find it telling that Becky’s situation is a good example of a family gone wrong. It puts her at the centre of the narrative conflict. Harry’s controlling parental relationship with Michael can be, and is, compared to the behaviour of Becky’s now-dead father. Becky is given the opportunity to lie about the timings of both the first and second murders, as her word as a witness becomes crucial in both cases. She is the one who Quint was meeting before his death, and Carol is killed after fighting with her, near to her house. Becky removes herself from the rest of Greenvale for the first half of the plot, hiding out alone with plenty of time to do whatever she wants without anyone to know. She attempts to re-join society only as the murders continue, seemingly without issue, as the killer is no doubt growing confident that they will not be caught. She is set up as the cleverer out of her and Anna, with plans to go to college, while Anna plays dumb. And, of course, that highly significant extra bowl of cereal that York notices at the table with Anna and Becky is attributed to her. He suspects she is the one with a secret boyfriend which, if so, would be a suspicious thing for her not to have mentioned. Beyond that, it is not hard to imagine who it might be, looking at the respective characters in Scenario B, which would tie up the loose thread of the third murder and make a compelling argument for Becky being the killer, with or without Michael’s help. The same essential case that Anna threatens to bring against Becky if she is arrested is written into the story itself as a red herring plotline. Becky is, it seems, very unfortunate. She is right to think the world is working against her.

I did not focus too heavily on the red room and white room elements in Scenario B, although they are still present. York’s dreams take place in the red room still, and there is an implication that his repressed memories of Zach are housed there as well. Zach certainly exists more firmly in the red room than outside of it. The red tree is still a threat after Scenario B wraps up, even with Forrest dead, as, like in Deadly Premonition, Willie is still out there, untouched by the final showdown. We last see him tailing Anna at the town meeting, and despite her obvious disinterest, it seems as if he is looking for a new demonic partner. It makes you wonder how the demons from the red room come to be. Forrest’s murder gauntlets could be as good a recruitment tool as any. The white room is not mentioned by name in Scenario B, but it is still implied to exist. Xander, figment though he is, suggests a potential place where the dead can wait peacefully for their loved ones to appear. It may be the same thing holding the four victims that York sees in the forest at the end in place. If that is so, then Forrest has some degree of control over the white room, too. It would be easier to imagine that the two rooms, red and white, open into one another, joined by a shared wall. They are different parts of the same place. Much like many of the characters in Scenario B, it is not all good and not all bad. It is a union of both ideas, a place where there are no easy answers. It is just where everything ends up.

That brings me to the very end of Scenario B, where York wonders about the truths he has learnt about Zach, and what it means for the two of them. At the end of Deadly Premonition, York steps aside to let Zach return and take over their life. York wants to be with Emily, and he feels he has done his job of looking after Zach. It turns out that everyone else has seen Zach all along, and that the conversations we hear between them are York talking to Zach from the white room. No-one else has met York. He is essentially Zach’s caretaker, and his protector. In Scenario B, because of the way I grounded their relationship, York and Zach trade places. York is the flesh and blood twin, and Zach is the ethereal twin. Although Francis Zach Morgan is still their birth name, York is the person we see, and has taken over as the primary personality for most of their life. York is a personality Zach constructed, and the persona that the two of them live through. Zach is relegated to another part of York’s consciousness, fully present only in dreams, until York is able to remember their childhood. At the end, Zach is no longer a repressed part of York. Instead of one disappearing, York and Zach merge. Their personalities are shared out, and they become a more coherent whole. York is not going to stop hearing Zach’s voice, but he may stop visiting with him in the red room, as there is no longer a reason for them to be split apart. The trauma that made it necessary for Zach to stay separate from York has been resolved. In return, York takes on some symbolic changes in the physical world that reference how Zach appears in Deadly Premonition. He promises to try and stop smoking, like Zach wants, and Emily comments that he has some “grey hairs” after his encounter with Forrest. Zach, of course, has white hair and does not smoke. In the end, York and Zach are one person made of two unique halves. They are both able to exit the stage with Emily, and walk off as the hero. The story has been a long journey for them, where they have had to address the murders happening in the present day, the secrets and unresolved trauma of their past, and the complex mixture of anxiety and hope they have about their future. Yet they manage it all, because they have the strength of two people. That is the ending of Scenario B, and it is an ending I was happy to write. I do not think they could do anything to deserve it more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is really all I have to say. I enjoyed writing this story a great deal, and I hope it was enjoyed in return. This is my longest project to date, and it will be my last major fanfiction project before I return to work on my original stories. I am still impressed that I managed to write 270,000 words about Deadly Premonition, when I was meant to be working on my first original novel, aha... Still, this has been good for my writing, and I was very glad to be able to share it with the Deadly Premonition fandom, who I am fond of. Thank you for reading my work, and thank you for encouraging this project. I got a lot out of it, and it means a lot to me. I am sad to see it end, but endings are, I suppose, what make us appreciate things for what they are. There is no way to avoid things ending. All you can do is hope for a satisfying one. Hopefully, I gave this just that!


End file.
